The
collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and through its opening could
be seen the chest and black hair, the like of which for thickness
and curliness could be found only on Persian lambs.
"Nijeradze! Hey, Nijeradze, get up!" cried Lichonin and prodded
the sleeper in the ribs. "Prince!"
"M-m-m..."
"May your race be even accursed in the person of your ancestors
and descendants! May they even be exiled from the heights of the
beauteous Caucasus! May they even never behold the blessed
Georgia! Get up, you skunk! Get up you Aravian dromedary!
Kintoshka! ..."
But suddenly, unexpectedly for Lichonin, Liubka intervened. She
took him by the arm and said timidly:
"Darling, why torture him? Maybe he wants to sleep, maybe he's
tired? Let him sleep a bit. I'd better go home. Will you give me a
half for a cabby? To-morrow you'll come to me again. Isn't that
so, sweetie?"
Lichonin was abashed. So strange did the intervention of this
silent, apparently sleepy girl, appear to him. Of course, he did
not grasp that she was actuated by an instinctive, unconscious
pity for a man who had not had enough sleep; or, perhaps, a
professional regard for the sleep of other people.
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