"Is that Mashurina?" asked the newcomer.

"Yes, it is I. Are you Ostrodumov?

"Pemien Ostrodumov," he replied, carefully removing his goloshes,
and hanging his shabby coat on a nail, he went into the room from
whence issued the woman's voice.

It was a narrow, untidy room, with dull green coloured walls,
badly lighted by two dusty windows. The furnishings consisted
of an iron bedstead standing in a corner, a table in the middle,
several chairs, and a bookcase piled up with books. At the table
sat a woman of about thirty. She was bareheaded, clad in a black
stuff dress, and was smoking a cigarette. On catching sight of
Ostrodumov she extended her broad, red hand without a word. He
shook it, also without saying anything, dropped into a chair and
pulled a half-broken cigar out of a side pocket. Mashurina gave
him a light, and without exchanging a single word, or so much as
looking at one another, they began sending out long, blue puffs
into the stuffy room, already filled with smoke.

There was something similar about these two smokers, although
their features were not a bit alike. In these two slovenly
figures, with their coarse lips, teeth, and noses (Ostrodumov was
even pock-marked), there was something honest and firm and
persevering.

"Have you seen Nejdanov?" Ostrodumov asked.