“Still⁠—”

“God will forgive you, Iván Petróvich. So you want two dime tapers?”

“Yes, two.”

“He is an angel, truly, an angel. He begs even a base peasant to forgive him. O Lord, true angels,” muttered the deacon’s widow, in an old black capote and black kerchief. “Truly, we ought to understand that.”

“Ah, Paramónovna!” Iván Petróvich turned to her. “Are you getting ready for communion, too? You, too, must forgive me, for Christ’s sake.”

“God will forgive you, sir, angel, merciful benefactor! Let me kiss your hand!”

“That will do, that will do, you know I do not like that,” said Iván Petróvich, smiling, and going away from the altar.