“But what a woman she is!” I said to myself, thinking of my wife.
“There’s a regular committee held in the house without my knowing.
Why this secrecy? Why this conspiracy? What have I done to them? Ivan
Ivanitch is right--I must go away.”
Next morning I woke up firmly resolved to go away. The events of the
previous day--the conversation at tea, my wife, Sobol, the supper, my
apprehensions--worried me, and I felt glad to think of getting away from
the surroundings which reminded me of all that. While I was drinking my
coffee the bailiff gave me a long report on various matters. The most
agreeable item he saved for the last.
“The thieves who stole our rye have been found,” he announced with a
smile. “The magistrate arrested three peasants at Pestrovo yesterday.”
“Go away!” I shouted at him; and a propos of nothing, I picked up the
cake-basket and flung it on the floor.