One grizzled old stager of a captain sat mum, not saying a word.
All at once he stands up in the middle of the room and says aloud, as though speaking to himself: 'If there's no God, how can I be a captain then ?' He took up his cap and went out, flinging up his hands." "He expressed a rather sensible idea," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, yawning for the third time.
"Yes?
I didn't understand it; I meant to ask you about it.

Well what else have I to tell you?
The Shpigulin factory's interesting; as you know, there are five hundred workmen in it, it's a hotbed of cholera, it's not been cleaned for fifteen years and the factory hands are swindled.

The owners are millionaires.

I assure you that some among the hands have an idea of the _Internationale._ What, you smile?
You'll see--only give me ever so little time! I've asked you to fix the time already and now I ask you again and then....

But I beg your pardon, I won't, I won't speak of that, don't frown.