Mishka the Singer and his friend the
Book-keeper, both bald, with soft, downy hairs around the denuded
skulls, both with turbid, nacreous, intoxicated eyes, were sitting
opposite each other, leaning with their elbows on a little marble
table, and were constantly trying to start singing in unison with
such quavering and galloping voices as though some one was very,
very often striking them in the cervical vertebrae:
"They fe-e-e-l the tru-u-u-u-uth!"
while Emma Edwardovna and Zociya with all their might were
exhorting them not to behave indecently. Roly-Poly was peacefully
slumbering on a chair, his head hanging down, having laid one long
leg over the other and grasped the sharp knee with his clasped
hands.
The girls at once recognized some of the students and ran to meet
them.
"Tamarochka, your husband has come--Volodenka. And my husband
too!--Mishka!" cried Niura piercingly, hanging herself on the neck
of the lanky, big-nosed, solemn Petrovsky. "Hello, Mishenka. Why
haven't you come for so long? I grew weary of waiting for you."
Yarchenko with a feeling of awkwardness was looking about him on
all sides.
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