But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent.

And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock.

You whined, 'Give me my sock.' Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag.

And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you.

It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment.