After which he again lifted the general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, "No, it is impossible to mend it; it's a wretched garment!" Akakiy Akakievitch's heart sank at these words.
"Why is it impossible, Petrovitch ?" he said, almost in the pleading voice of a child; "all that ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders.

You must have some pieces--" "Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found," said Petrovitch, "but there's nothing to sew them to.

The thing is completely rotten; if you put a needle to it--see, it will give way." "Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once." "But there is nothing to put the patches on to; there's no use in strengthening it; it is too far gone.

It's lucky that it's cloth; for, if the wind were to blow, it would fly away." "Well, strengthen it again.

How will this, in fact--" "No," said Petrovitch decisively, "there is nothing to be done with it.
It's a thoroughly bad job.