'That's enough, Matryóna. Don't wag your tongue without reason. You had better ask what sort of man'
'And you tell me what you've done with the money?'
Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew out the three-rouble note, and unfolded it.
'Here is the money. Trífonof did not pay, but promises to pay soon.'
Matryóna got still more angry; he had bought no sheep-skins, but had put his only coat on some naked fellow and had even brought him to their house.
She snatched up the note from the table, took it to put away in safety, and said: 'I have no supper for you. We can't feed all the naked drunkards in the world.'
'There now, Matryóna, hold your tongue a bit. First hear what a man has to say'
'Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken fool. I was right in not wanting to marry you-a drunkard. The linen my mother gave me you drank; and now you've been to buy a coat—and have drunk it, too!'
Simon tried to explain to his wife that he had only spent twenty kopeks; tried to tell how he had found the man—but Matryóna would not let him get a word in. She talked nineteen to the dozen, and dragged in things that had happened ten years before.
Matryóna talked and talked, and at last she flew at Simon and seized him by the sleeve.
'Give me my jacket. It is the only one I have, and you must needs take it from me and wear it yourself. Give it here, you mangy dog, and may the devil take you.'
Simon began to pull off the jacket, and turned a sleeve of it inside out; Matryóna seized the jacket and it burst its seams. She snatched it up, threw it over her head and went to the door. She meant to go out, but stopped undecided—she wanted to work off her anger, but she also wanted to learn what sort of a man the stranger was.
