The latter moved forward and stood beside the kneeling gentleman.
"Some more sugar for him!" ordered Semyon Yakovlevitch, after the glass had already been poured out.

They put some more in.

"More, more, for him!" More was put in a third time, and again a fourth.

The merchant began submissively drinking his syrup.
"Heavens!" whispered the people, crossing themselves.

The kneeling gentleman again heaved a deep, sonorous sigh.
"Father! Semyon Yakovlevitch!" The voice of the poor lady rang out all at once plaintively, though so sharply that it was startling.