In the year 182- ... there was living in the town of O---- the lieutenant Ivan Afanasiitch Pyetushkov. He was born of poor parents, was left an orphan at five years old, and came into the charge of a guardian. Thanks to this guardian, he found himself with no property whatever; he had a hard struggle to make both ends meet. He was of medium height, and stooped a little; he had a thin face, covered with freckles, but rather pleasing; light brown hair, grey eyes, and a timid expression; his low forehead was furrowed with fine wrinkles. Pyetushkov’s whole life had been uneventful in the extreme; at close upon forty he was still youthful and inexperienced as a child. He was shy with acquaintances, and exceedingly mild in his manner with persons over whose lot he could have exerted control.... People condemned by fate to a monotonous and cheerless existence often acquire all sorts of little habits and preferences. Pyetushkov liked to have a new white roll with his tea every morning. He could not do without this dainty. But behold one morning his servant, Onisim, handed him, on a blue-sprigged plate, instead of a roll, three dark red rusks. Pyetushkov at once asked his servant, with some indignation, what he meant by it. ‘The rolls have all been sold out,’ answered Onisim, a native of Petersburg, who had been flung by some queer freak of destiny into the very wilds of south Russia. ‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Ivan Afanasiitch. ‘Sold out,’ repeated Onisim; ‘there’s a breakfast at the Marshal’s, so they’ve all gone there, you know.’ Onisim waved his hand in the air, and thrust his right foot forward. Ivan Afanasiitch walked up and down the room, dressed, and set off himself to the baker’s shop. This establishment, the only one of the kind in the town of O----, had been opened ten years before by a German immigrant, had in a short time begun to flourish, and was still flourishing under the guidance of his widow, a fat woman. Pyetushkov tapped at the window. The fat woman stuck her unhealthy, flabby, sleepy countenance out of the pane that opened. ‘A roll, if you please,’ Pyetushkov said amiably. ‘The rolls are all gone,’ piped the fat woman. ‘Haven’t you any rolls?’ ‘No.’ ‘How’s that?--really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for them regularly.’ The woman stared at him in silence. ‘Take twists,’ she said at last, yawning; ‘or a scone.’ ‘I don’t like them,’ said Pyetushkov, and he felt positively hurt. ‘As you please,’ muttered the fat woman, and she slammed to the window-pane. Ivan Afanasiitch was quite unhinged by his intense vexation. In his perturbation he crossed to the other side of the street, and gave himself up entirely, like a child, to his displeasure. ‘Sir!’ ... he heard a rather agreeable female voice; ‘sir!’