"
Boris Sobashnikov again stood up picturesquely in the corner, in a
leaning position, one leg in front of the other and his head held
high. Suddenly he spoke amid the general silence, addressing
Platonov directly, in a most foppish tone:
"Eh ... Listen ... what's your name? ... This, then, must be your
mistress? Eh?" And with the tip of his boot he pointed in the
direction of the recumbent Pasha.
"Wha-at?" asked Platonov in a drawl, knitting his eyebrows.
"Or else you are her lover--it's all one ... What do they call
this duty here? Well, now, these same people for whom the women
embroider shirts and with whom they divide their honest earnings?
... Eh? ..."
Platonov looked at him with a heavy, intent gaze through his
narrowed lids.
"Listen," he said quietly, in a hoarse voice, slowly and
ponderously separating his words. "This isn't the first time that
you're trying to pick a quarrel with me. But, in the first place,
I see that despite your sober appearance you are exceedingly and
badly drunk; and, in the second place, I spare you for the sake of
your comrades.
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