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Page 677 of 1294

Author: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was
sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from
a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna
again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a
long train. 'Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my
dress? Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in
the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in
Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I
looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very carefully,
at her face. 'I wonder you trouble to come to me about such
trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good gracious, you won't let one
disturb you about anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get
married, Marfa Petrovna.' 'That's just like you, Arkady
Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a
bride when you've hardly buried your wife.

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