One evening, during supper hour, one of these women, intoxicated and impudent, struck Foma on the cheek with a melon-rind.
Foma was half-drunk.

He turned pale with rage, rose from his chair, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, said in a fierce voice which trembled with indignation: "You carrion, get out.

Begone! Someone else would have broken your head for this.

And you know that I am forbearing with you, and that my arm is never raised against any of your kind.

Drive her away to the devil!" A few days after her arrival in Kazan, Sasha became the mistress of a certain vodka-distiller's son, who was carousing together with Foma.
Going away with her new master to some place on the Kama, she said to Foma: "Goodbye, dear man! Perhaps we may meet again.