What coals these are! Wet, the devil take them!"
He became silent, and when the mother walked into the kitchen he was
sitting on the floor, blowing the coals in the samovar. Without
looking at her the Little Russian began again:
"Yes, mother, don't be afraid. I won't touch him. You know, I'm a
good-natured chap, soft as a stewed turnip. And then--you hero out
there, don't listen--I love him! But I don't like the waistcoat he
wears. You see, he has put on a new waistcoat, and he likes it very
much, so he goes strutting about, and pushes everybody, crying:
'See, see what a waistcoat I have on!' It's true, it's a fine
waistcoat. But what's the use of pushing people? It's hot enough
for us without it."
Pavel smiled and asked:
"How long do you mean to keep up your jabbering? You gave me one
thrashing with your tongue. That's enough!"
Sitting on the floor, the Little Russian spread his legs around the
samovar, and regarded Pavel. The mother stood at the door, and fixed
a sad, affectionate gaze at Andrey's long, bent neck and the round
back of his head. He threw his body back, supporting himself with
his hands on the floor, looked at the mother and at the son with his
slightly reddened and blinking eyes, and said in a low, hearty voice:
"You are good people, yes, you are!"
Pavel bent down and grasped his hand.
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