"Go, just go. I'd rather have one: I'll freeze, I'll be unsociable, like a bump in the swamp, like a snowdrift. And when the dust settles in the coffin, don't you dare to come to me to naydutsa relish for their own benefit, bending over the fallen body, left and Muse, and pen, and a shabby, stained with oil paper..." Writing this, the writer-sentimentalist Sherstobitov read it thirty times, I said "close" before the coffin and was filled with the resulting tragedy that broke down and let myself tear. And then the wife of Varenka called him to dinner, and he was pleasantly sated with vinaigrette and scrambled eggs with sausage. His tears, meanwhile, had dried up, and he returned to the text, first crossed out the "close" and then instead of "settles in the coffin" wrote "lies on Parnassus", causing all subsequent harmony went out the window. "Well, to hell with harmony, go for the best Barbara on the knee Pat..." So ordinary eggs preserved for grateful posterity of the writer-sentimentalist Sherstobitova.
