roast mutton, and salt.
Sitting at table with the officers and tearing the fat savory mutton with his hands, down which the grease trickled, Pétya was in an ecstatic childish state of love for all men, and consequently of confidence that others loved him in the same way.
“So then what do you think, Vasíli Fëdorovich?” said he to Denísov. “It’s all right my staying a day with you?”
And not waiting for a reply he answered his own question: “You see I was told to find out—well, I am finding out. … Only do let me into the very … into the chief … I don’t want a reward. … But I want …”
Pétya clenched his teeth and looked around, throwing back his head and flourishing his arms.
“Into the vewy chief …” Denísov repeated with a smile.
“Only, please