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It was past midnight. Nikolay Yevgrafitch understood his wife wouldn't normally be home very soon, not till five o'clock at least. He didn't trust her, and when she was long away he cannot sleep, was bothered, and at exactly the same time he despised his partner, and her foundation, and her looking-glass, and her bins of sweets, and the hyacinths, and the lilies of the valley which were dispatched her every day by someone or other, and which diffused the sickly perfume of a florist's shop all over the house. On such evenings he became petty, ill-humoured, irritable, and he fancied given that it was very necessary for him to really have the telegram he had received your day before from his sibling, though it contained nothing but Xmas greetings.
