"
He laughed. "No, you haven't noticed, Ivan Andreievitch. But there, you
don't really notice very much. You think you see the devil of a lot and
are a mighty clever fellow; but we're Russians, you know, and it takes
more than sentimental mysticism to understand us. But even if you did
understand us--which you don't--the real point is that we don't want
you, any of you, patronising, patting us on the shoulder, explaining us
to ourselves, talking about our souls, our unpunctuality, and our
capacity for drink. However, that's merely in a general way. In a
personal, direct, and individual way, I beg you not to visit my family
again. Stick to your own countrymen."
Although he spoke obstinately, and with a show of assurance, I realised,
behind his words, his own uncertainty.
"See here, Semyonov," I said. "It's just my own Englishmen that I am
going to stick to. What about Lawrence? And what about Bohun? Will you
prevent me from continuing my friendship with them?"
"Lawrence... Lawrence," he said slowly, in a voice quite other than his
earlier one, and as though he were talking aloud to himself.
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