"Yegorovna!" cried the latter at the door, and turning to Foma,
asked: "Don't you recognise me, Foma Ignatyevich?"
"I remember something. It seems to me we had met somewhere
before."
"That meeting lasted for four years, but that was long ago!
Yozhov."
"0h Lord!" exclaimed Foma, in astonishment, slightly rising from
the lounge. "Is it possible that it is you?"
"There are times, dear, when I don't believe it myself, but a
real fact is something from which doubt jumps back as a rubber
ball from iron."
Yozhov's face was comically distorted, and for some reason or
other his hands began to feel his breast.
"Well, well!" drawled out Foma. "But how old you have grown! Ah-
ah! How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"And you look as though you were fifty, lean, yellow. Life isn't
sweet to you, it seems? And you are drinking, too, I see."
Foma felt sorry to see his jolly and brisk schoolmate so worn
out, and living in this dog-hole, which seemed to be swollen from
burns. He looked at him, winked his eyes mournfully and saw that
Yozhov's face was for ever twitching, and his small eyes were
burning with irritation.
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