The Cloak

Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in no kind of diversion. No one could ever say that he had seen him at any kind of evening party. Having written to his heart's content, he lay down to sleep, smiling at the thought of the coming day—of what God might send him to copy on the morrow.

another wasting his evening in compliments to some pretty girl,

On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, supped his cabbage soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never noticing their taste, and gulping down everything with flies and anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment. His stomach filled, he rose from the table, and copied papers which he had brought home. If there happened to be none, he took copies for himself, for his own gratification, especially if the document was noteworthy, not on account of its style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished person.

Never once in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day in the street;

Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him

Moreover, it is impossible to say that no attention was paid to him

Akakiy laboured with zeal: no, he laboured with love. I

Some unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition that they were well-bred and polite men.

But Akakiy Akakievitch answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one there besides himself.

The porter not only did not rise from his seat when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown through the reception-room.