"Why have any discourses?
We have come together to enjoy ourselves." "Come, you had better drop that, Foma Ignatyevich." "Better drink something." "Let's have a drink! Ah, Foma, you're the son of a fine father!" Foma recoiled from the table, straightened himself and continuously smiling, listened to the kind, admonitory words.

Among all those sedate people he was the youngest and the handsomest.

His well-shaped figure, in a tight-fitting frock coat, stood out, to his advantage, among the mass of stout bodies with prominent paunches.

His swarthy face with large eyes was more regularly featured, more full of life than the shrivelled or red faces of those who stood before him with astonishment and expectancy.

He threw his chest forward, set his teeth together, and flinging the skirts of his frock coat apart, thrust his hands into his pockets.
"You can't stop up my mouth now with flattery and caresses!" said he, firmly and threateningly, "Whether you will listen or not, I am going to speak all the same.