"Is that any of your business?" asked the perspiring man, casting
a glance at Foma.
"It is my business! The people are working and your fat is
melting away. So you think you must yell at them?" said Foma,
threateningly, moving closer toward him.
"You--you had better keep your temper."
The perspiring man suddenly rushed away from his place and went
into his office. Foma looked after him and also went away from
the wharf; filled with a desire to abuse some one, to do
something, just to divert his thoughts from himself at least for
a short while. But his thoughts took a firmer hold on him.
"That sailor there, he tore himself away, and he's safe and
sound! Yes, while I--"
In the evening he again went up to the Mayakins. The old man was
not at home, and in the dining-room sat Lubov with her brother,
drinking tea. On reaching the door Foma heard the hoarse voice of
Taras:
"What makes father bother himself about him?"
At the sight of Foma he stopped short, staring at his face with a
serious, searching look. An expression of agitation was clearly
depicted on Lubov's face, and she said with dissatisfaction and
at the same time apologetically:
"Ah! So it's you?"
"They've been speaking of me," thought Foma, as he seated himself
at the table.
Pages:
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557