"A new cloak?" exclaimed Akaki Akakievitch, and it grew dark before his eyes. The tailor's work-room seemed to go round with him, and the only object he could clearly distinguish was the paper-patched general's portrait on the tailor's snuff-box. "A new cloak!" he murmured, as though half asleep. "But I have no money."
"Yes, a new cloak," repeated Petrovitch with cruel calmness.
"Well, even if I did decide on it—how much"
"You mean how much would it cost?"
"Yes."
"About a hundred and fifty roubles," answered the tailor, pursing his lips. This diabolical tailor took a special pleasure in embarrassing his customers and watching the expression of their faces with his squinting single eye.
"A hundred and fifty roubles for a cloak!" exclaimed Akaki Akakievitch in a tone which sounded like an outcry—possibly the first he had uttered since his birth.
"Yes," replied Petrovitch. "And then the marten-fur collar and silk lining for the hood would make it up to two hundred roubles."
"Petrovitch, I adjure you!" said Akaki Akakievitch in an imploring tone, no longer hearing nor wishing to hear the tailor's words,
