What sort of man do you think I am?"
"A man with a drunken headache," answered Sasha, yawning.
"Aleksandra!" exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, "don't talk nonsense!
Tell me conscientiously, what do you think of me?"
"I don't think anything!" she said drily. "Why are you bothering
me with nonsense?"
"Is this nonsense?" said Foma, sadly. "Eh, you devils! This is
the principal thing. The most essential thing to me."
He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute's
silence, Sasha began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice:
"Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever
see! Is it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And
on what ground should I think about each and every man? I have
not even time to think about myself, and, perhaps, I don't feel
like doing it at all."
Foma laughed drily and said:
"I wish I were like this--and had no desires for anything."
Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into
Foma's face and lay down again, saying:
"You are musing too much.
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