suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face

looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark,

mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides,

growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair,

touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled

at a hairdresser's, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled

hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his

wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in