He was a dapper old man, who always wore a black silk neckerchief around his red, flabby neck, and a thick, lilac-colored waistcoat of velvet around his body.

On his sharp, glistening nose there always sat a pair of glasses with tortoise-shell rims, which secured him the sobriquet of "bony eyes." In a single breath and without awaiting an answer, he plied Vlasova with dry, crackling words: "How are you, Pelagueya Nilovna, how are you?
How is your son?
Thinking of marrying him off, hey?
He's a youth full ripe for matrimony.

The sooner a son is married off, the safer it is for his folks.

A man with a family preserves himself better both in the spirit and the flesh.

With a family he is like mushrooms in vinegar.