You know everything. Tell me, what
for do you live? What for are you accumulating money? Do you
think you are not going to die? Well, what then? You've captured
me. You've taken hold of me, you've conquered me. But wait, I may
yet tear myself away from you! It isn't the end yet! Eh, you!
What have you done for life? By what will you be remembered? My
father, for instance, donated a lodging-house, and you--what have
you done?"
Mayakin's wrinkles quivered and sank downward, wherefore his face
assumed a sickly, weeping expression.
"How will you justify yourself?" asked Foma, softly, without
lifting his eyes from him.
"Hold your tongue, you puppy!" said the old man in a low voice,
casting a glance of alarm about the room.
"I've said everything! And now I'm going! Hold me back!"
Foma rose from his chair, thrust his cap on his head, and
measured the old man with abhorrence.
"You may go; but I'll--I'll catch you! It will come out as I
say!" said Yakov Tarasovich in a broken voice.
"And I'll go on a spree! I'll squander all!"
"Very well, we'll see!"
"Goodbye! you hero," Foma laughed.
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