"It's your luck, it's fate!" said the huntsman, stretching. "You
must put up with it, poor thing. But good-bye, I've been chatter-
ing long enough. . . . I must be at Boltovo by the evening."
Yegor rose, stretched himself, and slung his gun over his
shoulder; Pelagea got up.
"And when are you coming to the village?" she asked softly.
"I have no reason to, I shall never come sober, and you have
little to gain from me drunk; I am spiteful when I am drunk.
Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, Yegor Vlassitch."
Yegor put his cap on the back of his head and, clicking to his
dog, went on his way. Pelagea stood still looking after him. . . .
She saw his moving shoulder-blades, his jaunty cap, his lazy,
careless step, and her eyes were full of sadness and tender affec-
tion. . . . Her gaze flitted over her husband's tall, lean figure and
caressed and fondled it. . . . He, as though he felt that gaze,
stopped and looked round. . . . He did not speak, but from his
face, from his shrugged shoulders, Pelagea could see that he
wanted to say something to her. She went up to him timidly and
looked at him with imploring eyes.
"Take it," he said, turning round.
He gave her a crumpled rouble note and walked quickly
away.
"Good-bye, Yegor Vlassitch," she said, mechanically taking
the rouble.
He walked by a long road, straight as a taut strap. She, pale
and motionless as a statue, stood, her eyes seizing every step he
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