I did send word to my old man here, but I fancy that he did as he always does..." "Petrusha!" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, instantly roused from his stupefaction.

He clasped his hands and flew to his son.

"_Pierre, mon enfant!_ Why, I didn't know you!" He pressed him in his arms and the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Come, be quiet, be quiet, no flourishes, that's enough, that's enough, please," Petrusha muttered hurriedly, trying to extricate himself from his embrace.
"I've always sinned against you, always!" "Well, that's enough.

We can talk of that later.

I knew you'd carry on.
Come, be a little more sober, please." "But it's ten years since I've seen you." "The less reason for demonstrations." _"Mon enfant!..."_ "Come, I believe in your affection, I believe in it, take your arms away.