'Upon my word, sir, it has never yet happened to me to sell the dead. The year before last I did sell some living ones, two girls to Protopopov, two girls for a hundred roubles each, and very grateful he was for them too: they have turned out capital girls to work; they even weave table napkins.'
'Well, it is not a question of the living; God bless them! I am asking for the dead.'
'Really, at first sight, I am afraid that it may be a loss to me. Perhaps you are deceiving me, sir, and they, er … are worth more, perhaps.'
'Listen, my good woman … ech, what nonsense you talk! What can they be worth? Just consider: why, they are dust, you know. Do you understand, they are nothing but dust. Take the most worthless, humblest article, a simple rag for instance—and even the rag has a value: rags are bought for making into paper, anyway, but what I am speaking of is of no use for anything. Come, tell me yourself, what is it of use for?'
'That is true, certainly. They are of no use for anything at all. The only thing that makes me hesitate is that, you see, they are dead.'
'Ugh, she is as stupid as a post,' said Tchitchikov to himself, beginning to lose patience. 'However is one to come to terms with her! She makes me feel hot all over, the confounded old woman!' And, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he began mopping his perspiring brow. Tchitchikov need not have been moved to anger, however: many a highly respected man, many a statesman indeed, is a regular Korobotchka in business. Once he
