“Why, you see, I—” the baker began.
But at this point Akim’s scoffing composure deserted him of a sudden. And, rolling his stupid hawk-like eyes, he abruptly leaped to his feet and began to yell, with the irascibility of an idiot: “What? So I’m chattering nonsense, am I? Have you been in the hospital? Have you? And I have been there! I spent seven days there—and did he give me any white-bread rolls, that doctor of yours? Did he?”
“Yes, you’re a fool,” interposed Mitrofan: “white rolls are not given to every sick person: it depends on their disease.”
“Ah! It depends on their disease! Well, let him go burst with his disease, devil take him!” shouted Akim.
And, casting furious glances about him, he flung his spoon into the “thin gruel” and strode off into the hut.