throw down a pine." . . .

"That is, do you refer to me?" asked the soldier.

"To you. . . ."

"What is it?"

"Nothing. . . . Too late!"

"No, wait! What's the matter? Which pine?"

Our baker did not reply, quickly working with his shovel at the oven.
He would throw into the oven the biscuits from the boiling kettle,
would take out the ready ones and throw them noisily to the floor, to
the boys who put them on bast strings. It looked as though he had
forgotten all about the soldier and his conversation with him. But
suddenly the soldier became very restless. He rose to his feet and
walking up to the oven, risked striking his chest against the handle
of the shovel, which was convulsively trembling in the air.

"No, you tell me--who is she? You have insulted me. . . . I? . . .
Not a single one can wrench herself from me, never! And you say to
me such offensive words." . . . And, indeed, he looked really
offended. Evidently there was nothing for which he might respect
himself, except for his ability to lead women astray; it may be that
aside from this ability there was no life in him, and only this
ability permitted him to feel himself a living man.

There are people to whom the best and dearest thing in life is some