Volochine was
eager to have details of the other's conquests. A little vein just
below his left knee throbbed convulsively. Sarudine, however, was not
thinking of such piquant details, but of the distressing events of the
last few days. He turned towards the garden and drummed with his
fingers on the window-sill.
Yet Volochine was evidently waiting, and Sarudine felt that he must
keep to the desired theme of conversation.
"Of course, I know," he began, with an exaggerated air of nonchalance,
"I know that to you men-about-town these country wenches are
extraordinarily attractive. But you're wrong. They're fresh and plump,
it's true, but they've no _chic_; they don't know how to make love
artistically."
In a moment Volochine was all animation. His eyes sparkled, and there
was a change in the tone of his voice.
"No, that's quite true. But after a while all that sort of thing is apt
to become boring. Our Petersburg women are not well made. You know what
I mean? They're just bundles of nerves; they've no limbs on them. Now
here ..."
"Yes, you're right," said Sarudine, growing interested in his turn, as
he twirled his moustache complacently.
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