“I want to subscribe to a newspaper,” you would say to him. “Please let me have ten rubles of my wages on account.”
“Hm! Why does a man want to stuff his head with lies? Well, and to tell the truth, I haven’t more than fifteen or twenty kopeks in my pocket—”
The Bride would enter the room, with downcast eyes: “We have hardly any flour on hand, Tikhon Ilitch—”
“How comes that? Hardly any? Oi, you’re talking nonsense, woman!” And he would contract his brows in a frown. And while he was proving that the flour ought to last for another three days, at least, he kept darting swift glances now at Kuzma, now at the Bride. Once he even inquired, with a grin: “And how do you sleep—all right? are you warm?”
And the Bride, who was embarrassed already by his visits, blushed deeply and, bowing her head, left the room, while Kuzma’s fingers turned cold with shame and wrath.
“Shame on you, brother Tikhon Ilitch,” he blurted out, turning away to the window. “And especially after what you told me yourself—”
“But then why did she blush?” inquired Tikhon Ilitch maliciously, with a perturbed and awkward smile.