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The Daughter of the Commandant by Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin
page 91 of 168 (54%)

"Ah, ah! so it is you, your lordship," said Pugatchéf, upon seeing me.
"You are welcome. All honour to you, and a place at our feast."

The guests made room. I sat down in silence at the end of the table.

My neighbour, a tall and slender young Cossack, with a handsome face,
poured me out a bumper of brandy, which I did not touch. I was busy
noting the company.

Pugatchéf was seated in the place of honour, his elbows on the table,
and resting his black beard on his broad fist. His features, regular and
agreeable, wore no fierce expression. He often addressed a man of about
fifty years old, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeitsh,
sometimes Uncle.

Each man considered himself as good as his fellow, and none showed any
particular deference to their chief. They were talking of the morning's
assault, of the success of the revolt, and of their forthcoming
operations.

Each man bragged of his prowess, proclaimed his opinions, and freely
contradicted Pugatchéf. And it was decided to march upon Orenburg, a
bold move, which was nearly crowned with success. The departure was
fixed for the day following.

The guests drank yet another bumper, rose from table, and took leave of
Pugatchéf. I wished to follow them, but Pugatchéf said--

"Stay there, I wish to speak to you!"
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