The whiskered
gentleman again eyed Foma with a sarcastic smile.
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, softly.
"I said, co-cot-te," pronounced the whiskered man, moving his lips
as if he tasted the word. "And if you don't understand it, I can
explain it to you."
"You had better explain it," said Foma, with a deep sigh, not
lifting his eyes off the man.
Ookhtishchev clasped his hands and rushed aside.
"A cocotte, if you want to know it, is a prostitute," said the
whiskered man in a low voice, moving his big, fat face closer to
Foma.
Foma gave a soft growl and, before the whiskered man had time to
move away, he clutched with his right hand his curly, grayish hair.
With a convulsive movement of the hand, Foma began to shake the
man's head and his big, solid body; lifting up his left hand, he
spoke in a dull voice, keeping time to the punishment:
"Don't abuse a person--in his absence. Abuse him--right in his
face--straight in his eyes."
He experienced a burning delight, seeing how comically the stout
arms were swinging in the air, and how the legs of the man, whom he
was shaking, were bending under him, scraping against the floor.
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