Thence his voice issued in a tone of mock sullenness: "You had better go away, Pavel, so I shan't bite your head off! I am only joking, mother; don't believe it! I want to prepare the samovar.
What coals these are! Wet, the devil take them!" He became silent, and when the mother walked into the kitchen he was sitting on the floor, blowing the coals in the samovar.

Without looking at her the Little Russian began again: "Yes, mother, don't be afraid.

I won't touch him.

You know, I'm a good-natured chap, soft as a stewed turnip.

And then--you hero out there, don't listen--I love him! But I don't like the waistcoat he wears.