cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still overcast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face.
“I’ve taken a chill,” thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders.
At last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily, and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him.
“Goodbye, Trifon Borissovitch!” Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily, from resentment.
But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no reply.
“Goodbye, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, goodbye!” he heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to