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face,
scarcely listening to what he was saying. There was something else that
Rimsky found even more sinister than this slanderous and completely bogus
yarn about the goings-on in Pushkino, and that something was a change in the
house manager's appearance and manner.
However hard Varenukha tried to pull down the peak of his cap to shade
his face and however much he waved the newspaper, Rimsky managed to discern
an enormous bruise that covered most of the right side of his face, starting
at his nose. What was more, this normally ruddy-cheeked man now had an
unhealthy chalky pallor and although the night was hot, he was wearing an
old-fashioned striped cravat tied round his neck. If one added to this his
newly acquired and repulsive habit of sucking his teeth, a distinct lowering
and coarsening of his tone of voice and the furtive, shifty look in his
eyes, it was safe to say that Ivan Savye-lich Varenukha was unrecognisable.
Something even more insistent was worrying Rimsky, but he could not put
his finger on it however much he racked his brain or stared at Varenukha. He
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