"Papa! and what sort of a man--what in your opinion is Taras ?" Mayakin shuddered.

His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily: "What sort of talk is this ?" "Must he not even be mentioned ?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.
I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak of him! "-- the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with a gloomy frown.

But when he said that he did not want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and angrily: "Taraska, too, is a sore.

Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads.

That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are unhappy because of this incompetence.Taraska.Yes.He must be about forty now.