His articulation was wonderfully clear.

His words pattered out like smooth, big grains, always well chosen, and at your service.
At first this attracted one, but afterwards it became repulsive, just because of this over-distinct articulation, this string of ever-ready words.

One somehow began to imagine that he must have a tongue of special shape, somehow exceptionally long and thin, extremely red with a very sharp everlastingly active little tip.
Well, this was the young man who darted now into the drawing-room, and really, I believe to this day, that he began to talk in the next room, and came in speaking.

He was standing before Varvara Petrovna in a trice.
"...

Only fancy, Varvara Petrovna," he pattered on, "I came in expecting to find he'd been here for the last quarter of an hour; he arrived an hour and a half ago; we met at Kirillov's: he set off half an hour ago meaning to come straight here, and told me to come here too, a quarter of an hour later...." "But who?
Who told you to come here ?" Varvara Petrovna inquired.
"Why, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch! Surely this isn't the first you've heard of it! But his luggage must have been here a long while, anyway.