The fat monk with the jug, from the monastery, for some reason had none handed to him at all, though up till then he had had his glass every day.
"Semyon Yakovlevitch, do say something to me.

I've been longing to make your acquaintance for ever so long," carolled the gorgeously dressed lady from our carriage, screwing up her eyes and smiling.

She was the lady who had observed that one must not be squeamish about one's amusements, so long as they were interesting.

Semyon Yakovlevitch did not even look at her.

The kneeling landowner uttered a deep, sonorous sigh, like the sound of a big pair of bellows.
"With sugar in it!" said Semyon Yakovlevitch suddenly, pointing to the wealthy merchant.