I tried
to ask him about his dog, but he wasn't in the best of humors, I could
see. Well, he gave me a shove; I suppose he only meant to put me out of
his way, as if he'd say, 'Let me go, do!' but he fetched me such a crack
on my neck, so seriously, that--oh! oh!" And Stepan, who could not help
laughing, shrugged up and rubbed the back of his head. "Yes," he added;
"he has got a fist; it's something like a fist, there's no denying
that!"
They all laughed at Stepan, and after supper they separated to go to
bed.
Meanwhile, at that very time, a gigantic figure with a bag on his
shoulders and a stick in his hand, was eagerly and persistently stepping
out along the T--- high-road. It was Gerasim. He was hurrying on without
looking round; hurrying homewards, to his own village, to his own country.
After drowning poor Mumu, he had run back to his garret, hurriedly packed
a few things together in an old horsecloth, tied it up in a bundle,
tossed it on his shoulder, and so was ready. He had noticed the road
carefully when he was brought to Moscow; the village his mistress had
taken him from lay only about twenty miles off the high-road. He walked
along it with a sort of invincible purpose, a desperate and at the same
time joyous determination.
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