all places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply
"Ionitch": "Where is Ionitch off to?" or "Should not we call in
Ionitch to a consultation?"

Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voice
has changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed,
too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees his
patients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floor
with his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice:

"Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't
talk so much!"

He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him.

During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten
had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he
plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and
has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters,
serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--
the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he
likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy
him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor
with his stick.

As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts
in his spoke in some conversation:

"What are you talking about? Eh? Whom?"