Semyonitch.' At last he began to cry. 'Tell me at least one thing,' he asked . . . 'is he handsome, young?'
'Yes, he is young,' I answered.
'He is young,' repeated Punin, smearing the tears over his cheeks; 'and she is young. . . It's from that that all the trouble's sprung!'
This rhyme came by chance; poor Punin was in no mood for versifying. I would have given a good deal to hear his rhapsodical eloquence again, or even his almost noiseless laugh. . . Alas! his eloquence was quenched for ever, and I never heard his laugh again.
I promised to let him know, as soon as I should find out anything positive. . . Tarhov's name I did not, however, mention. Punin suddenly collapsed completely. 'Very good, very good, sir, thank you,' he said with a pitiful face, using the word 'sir,' which he had never done before; 'only mind, sir, do not say anything to Paramon Semyonitch . . . or he'll be angry. In one word, he has forbidden it. Good-bye, sir.'
As he got up and turned his back to me, Punin struck me as such a poor feeble creature, that I positively marvelled; he limped with both legs, and doubled up at each step. . .
'It's a bad look-out. It's the end of him, that's what it means,' I thought.
Though I had promised Punin to trace Musa,
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