"They have brought a little baby here. Such a tiny one, my friend, but he shouts just like a police-inspector. Just like a police-inspector!"
She swore whimsically, and coquettishly flipped Khinyakov's nose.
"Let's go and see. Why not, indeed! Yes, we'll just take a look at him. Matryona is going to bathe it; she is boiling the samovar. Abram Petrovich is blowing up the charcoal with his boot. How funny it all is. And the baby is crying: 'Wa, wa, wa!'"
Dunyasha made a face which she meant to represent the baby, and again went on puling: "'Wa, wa, wa!' Just like a police-inspector! Let's go. Don't you want to?—well, then devil take you! Turn up your toes where you are, rotten egg, you!"
And she danced out of the room. But half an hour after Khinyakov, tottering on his weak legs and hanging on to the doorposts, hesitatingly opened the door of the kitchen.
"Shut it! You've made a draught," cried Abram Petrovich.
Khinyakov hastily slammed the door behind him, and looked round apologetically; but no one took any notice of him, so he calmed down. The combined heat of the stove, the urn, and the company made the kitchen pretty warm, and the vapour rose, and then rolled down the colder walls in thick drops. Matryona with a severe and irritated mien was washing the child in a
