kind are greedy for money; are even thieves."

"Let them say," said Sasha, calmly.

"Don't you feel offended?" asked Foma, with curiosity. "But you are not
greedy. It's advantageous to you to be with me. I am rich, and yet you
are going away; that shows you're not greedy."

"I?" Sasha thought awhile and said with a wave of the hand: "Perhaps
I am not greedy--what of it? I am not of the very lowest of the street
women. And against whom shall I feel a grudge? Let them say whatever
they please. It will be only human talk, not the bellowing of bulls. And
human holiness and honesty are quite familiar to me! Eh, how well I know
them! If I were chosen as a judge, I would acquit the dead only l" and
bursting into malicious laughter, Sasha said: "Well, that will do, we've
spoken enough nonsense. Sit down at the table!"

On the morning of the next day Foma and Sasha stood side by side on
the gangway of a steamer which was approaching a harbour on the Ustye.
Sasha's big black hat attracted everybody's attention by its deftly
bent brim, and its white feathers, and Foma was ill at ease as he stood
beside her, and felt as though inquisitive glances crawled over his
perplexed face. The steamer hissed and quivered as it neared the
landing-bridge, which was sprinkled by a waiting crowd of people attired
in bright summer clothes, and it seemed to Foma that he noticed among
the crowd of various faces and figures a person he knew, who now seemed
to be hiding behind other people's backs, and yet lifted not his eye
from him.

"Let's go into the cabin!" said he to his companion uneasily.

"Don't acquire the habit of hiding your sins from people," replied
Sasha, with a smile. "Have you perhaps noticed an acquaintance there?"

"Mm. Yes. Somebody is watching me."

"A nurse with a milk bottle? Ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, there you're neighing!" said Foma, enraged, looking at her
askance. "Do you think I am afraid?"

"I can see how brave you are."

"You'll see. I'll face anybody," said Foma, angrily, but after a close
look at the crowd in the harbour his face suddenly assumed another
expression, and he added softly:

"Oh, it's my godfather."

At the very edge of the landing-stage stood Yakov Tarasovich, squeezed
between two stout women, with his iron-like face lifted upward, and he
waved his cap in the air with malicious politeness. His beard shook, his
bald crown flashed, and his small eye pierced Foma like borers.

"What a vulture!"