tongue,' he said quickly, seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; 'I shall really, you know . . . I . . . what do you mean by it, really? You'd better help me dress.'
Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch's greasy Tartar dressing-gown, gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush.
Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker's shop. A queer smile was playing about his lips.
He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known 'establishment,' when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a yellow kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion on her shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her.
'Where are you going, my dear?'
Vassilissa glanced swiftly at him, laughed, turned away, and put her hand over her lips.
'Going shopping, I suppose?' queried Ivan Afanasiitch, fidgeting with his feet.
'How inquisitive we are!' retorted Vassilissa.
'Why inquisitive?' said Pyetushkov, hurriedly gesticulating with his hands. 'Quite the contrary. . . Oh yes, you know,' he added hastily, as though these last words completely conveyed his meaning.
'Did you eat my roll?'
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