the following conversation took place between them.
'Where did you put that paper, you wretch of a woman?'
'Upon my word, your honour, I have not seen any except the little bit you were pleased to give me to cover the wine-glass.'
'But I see from your face that you filched it.'
'What should I filch it for? I should have no use for it: I can't read or write.'
'That's a lie, you took it to the sacristan! he knows his A B C, so you took it to him.'
'Why, the sacristan can get paper for himself if he wants it. He's not seen your bit of paper!'
'You wait a bit. At the dread Day of Judgment, the devils will toast you on their iron forks for this. You will see how they will toast you!'
'Why should they toast me, when I have never touched the paper? Other womanish weaknesses maybe, but thieving nobody has ever charged me with before.'
'But the devils will toast you! They will say: "Here, this is for deceiving your master, you wicked woman," and they'll roast you on hot coals!'
'And I shall say: "There's no reason to! upon my word, there's no reason! I didn't take it. …" But there it lies yonder on the table; you are always scolding me for nothing!'
Plyushkin did, indeed, see the paper; he stood still for a minute chewing his lips, and then brought out: 'Well, why are you running on
