Ah! or the Italian." "Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich," cried Ookhtishchev, agitated.
"I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and gloomy.

It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture," said the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine out of his glass.
"But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it," put in the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange.
The sun was setting.

Sinking somewhere far beyond the forest, on the meadow shore, it painted the entire forest with purple tints and cast rosy and golden spots over the dark cold water.

Foma gazed in that direction at this play of the sunbeams, watched how they quivered as they were transposed over the placid and vast expanse of waters, and catching fragments of conversation, he pictured to himself the words as a swarm of dark butterflies, busily fluttering in the air.

Sasha, her head resting on his shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly.