I won't go."
"Still, if my memory does not play me false," said Lichonin, with
calm causticity, "I recollect that no further back than past
autumn we with a certain future Mommsen were pouring in some place
or other a jug of ice into a pianoforte, delineating a Bouratian
god, dancing the belly-dance, and all that sort of thing?"
Lichonin spoke the truth. In his student days, and later, being
retained at the university, Yarchenko had led the most wanton and
crack-brained life. In all the taverns, cabarets, and other places
of amusement his small, fat, roundish little figure, his rosy
cheeks, puffed out like those of a painted cupid, and the shining,
humid kindly eyes were well known, his hurried, spluttering speech
and shrill laughter remembered.
His comrades could never fathom where he found the time to employ
in study, but nevertheless he went through all examinations and
prescribed work with distinction and from the first course the
professors had him in view. Now Yarchenko was beginning little by
little to quit his former comrades and bottle companions.
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