But that same young gentleman, in the pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us.

Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me.

As I understand nothing about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it.

I had not turned two leaves when all at once he caught me by the hand and stopped me.
"Stop! tell me first what you are reading." I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.
"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch?
Why, your own words." "Who told you that they were my words ?" "Why, what more would you have?
Here it is printed: 'Related by such and such a sacristan.'" "Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow pedlar! Did I say that?
''Twas just the same as though one hadn't his wits about him!' Listen.

I'll tell the tale to you on the spot." We moved up to the table, and he began.
***** My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten rolls and poppy-seed cakes with honey in the other world!) could tell a story wonderfully well.