I was totally plunged into my own thoughts, thinking of Mary's situation over and over again, and for a long time I was unable to return to reality, to the ward. I was withdrawn from my torpor by a loud voice: it was Anatoli Yakovlevich, who had spent ages lecturing Bezhan irksomely about something, and now angrily cried:
“You must learn the language properly! Otherwise you won't know zilch!”
Bezhan, gaping in fright, looked at me in confusion, seeking support. I naturally had no wish to run up against the rudeness of my neighbour, who, as I already knew, was not accustomed to hearing out someone else's opinion, let alone respecting it. Nevertheless, I was obliged to stand up for the dispirited boy.
“How have you decided, Anatoli Yakovlevich, that he has learned the language badly? Wha
