"How hard you always are on him! Sergei Petrovitch is a worthy man."

"Worthy!" repeated the old lady scornfully.

"And how devoted he was to my poor husband!" observed Marya Dmitrievna;
"even now he cannot speak of him without emotion."

"And no wonder! It was he who picked him out of the gutter," muttered
Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever.

"He looks so meek and mild," she began again, "with his grey head, but
he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander. And to
think of his having the rank of a councillor! To be sure, though, he's
only a village priest's son."

"Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt. Sergei
Petrovitch has had no education: of course he does not speak French,
still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man."

"Yes, he is always ready to kiss your hands. He does not speak
French--that's no great loss. I am not over strong in the French lingo
myself. It would be better if he could not speak at all; he would not
tell lies then. But here he is--speak of the devil," added Marfa
Timofyevna looking into the street. "Here comes your agreeable man
striding along. What a lanky creature he is, just like a stork!"

Marya Dmitrievna began to arrange her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at
her ironically.

"What's that, not a grey hair surely? You must speak to your Palashka,