“苔莱季娜在这儿住吗?” 佣人还是穿着衬衫,不过已经扣好了上浆的高领,他打量着站在他面前台阶上的青年:这个青年,乡下人打扮,粗呢大衣的衣领竖到耳根;两手冻得通红,一只手拿着个肮脏的口袋,另一只手,为了平衡,提着一个旧提包。 “苔莱季娜?她是干什么的?”佣人反问道,吃惊地扬起又浓又密的眉毛,那眉毛仿佛是从嘴上刮下来的胡子,唯恐糟蹋掉,贴在前额上的。青年先是摇摇头,把鼻涕甩掉,然后回答说: “Does Militina live here?” The maid, still in her shirt, had already fastened the slender high-necked man, looking at the youth standing on the steps in front of him: the young man, the countryman, the mannequin The collar of the coat was erect; the hands were flushed red, one hand holding a dirty pocket and the other hand, in order to balance, carrying an old handbag. “Miltina? What is she doing?” The servant asked in an antipode, raising a thick, thick eyebrow in surprise, as if the eyebrow was a beard scraped from her mouth, lest she should slip and stick to her forehead of. Youth first shook his head, put the nose off, then replied: