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 entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure calculated to excite envy.

"Good morning, Volkov!" cried Oblomov.

"And good morning to you," returned the radiant gentleman, approaching the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat. However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand. Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down), but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had far better remain standing.

"So you are not yet up?" he went on. "And why on earth are you wearing a nightshirt? They have quite gone out of fashion."

"'Tis not a nightshirt, it is a