I love it.

I love you, too.

Never mind, you're a good fellow!" said Mayakin, softly, and as though out of breath.
"Do not love me, but teach me.

But then, you cannot teach me the right thing!" said Foma, as he turned his back on the old man and left the hall.
Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin remained in the tavern alone.

He sat by the table, and, bending over it, made drawings of patterns on the tray, dipping his trembling finger in the spilt kvass, and his sharp-pointed head was sinking lower and lower over the table, as though he did not decipher, and could not make out what his bony finger was drawing on the tray.
Beads of perspiration glistened on his bald crown, and as usual the wrinkles on his cheeks quivered with frequent, irritable starts.
In the tavern a resounding tumult smote the air so that the window-panes were rattling.