Peter Ivanovitch was not to be seen, neither
was Mr. Razumov present. But, on the sofa, near Sophia Antonovna, a
bony-faced man with a goatee beard leaned forward with his hands on
his knees, staring hard with a kindly expression. In a remote corner a
broad, pale face and a bulky shape could be made out, uncouth, and as if
insecure on the low seat on which it rested. The only person known to me
was little Julius Laspara, who seemed to have been poring over the map,
his feet twined tightly round the chair-legs. He got down briskly and
bowed to Miss Haldin, looking absurdly like a hooknosed boy with a
beautiful false pepper-and-salt beard. He advanced, offering his seat,
which Miss Haldin declined. She had only come in for a moment to say a
few words to Peter Ivanovitch.
His high-pitched voice became painfully audible in the room.
"Strangely enough, I was thinking of you this very afternoon, Natalia
Victorovna. I met Mr. Razumov. I asked him to write me an article on
anything he liked. You could translate it into English--with such a
teacher."
He nodded complimentarily in my direction. At the name of Razumov an
indescribable sound, a sort of feeble squeak, as of some angry small
animal, was heard in the corner occupied by the man who seemed much too
large for the chair on which he sat.
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