"Sarudine," said a tall lean officer with exceptionally long, unwieldy
arms, "I've brought you a book."
Above the general clamour Novikoff instantly caught the name, Sarudine,
and the sound of his voice, as well, all other voices seeming mute.
"What sort of book?"
"It's about women, by Tolstoi," replied the lanky officer, raising his
voice as if he were making a report. On his long sallow face there was
a look of evident pride at being able to read and discuss Tolstoi.
"Do you read Tolstoi?" asked Ivanoff, who had noticed this naively
complacent expression.
"Von Deitz is mad about Tolstoi," exclaimed Malinowsky, with a loud
guffaw.
Sarudine took the slender red-covered pamphlet, and, turning over a few
pages, said,
"Is it interesting?"
"You'll see for yourself," replied Von Deitz with enthusiasm. "There's
a brain for you, my word! It's just as if one had known it all one's
self!"
"But why should Victor Sergejevitsch read Tolstoi when he has his own
special views concerning women?" asked Novikoff, in a low tone, not
taking his eyes off his glass.
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