'What is it? What's wrong with him? Is he ill?'
But as he settled Nezhdanov, Pavel answered her with a smile, looking round over his shoulder.
'Don't worry yourself, miss, it'll soon pass off. . . . It's just from not being used to it.'
'But what is it?' Marianna queried insistently.
'He's a little tipsy. Been drinking on an empty stomach; that's all!'
Marianna bent over Nezhdanov. He was half-lying across the sofa; his head had sunk on to his breast, his eyes were glassy.. . . He smelt of spirits; he was drunk.
'Alexey!' broke from her lips.
He raised his heavy eyelids with an effort and tried to smile.
'Ah! Marianna!' he stammered, 'you always talked of sim-sim-plification; see now, I'm really simplified. For the people's always drunk, so———'
He broke off; then muttered something indistinct, closed his eyes and fell asleep. Pavel laid him carefully on the sofa.
'Don't be worried, Marianna Vikentyevna,' he repeated, 'he'll sleep a couple of hours and wake up as good as new.'
Marianna was on the point of asking how it
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