"
"Oh, I know, I know," cried Zerkow, moistening his lips.
Then he plied her with questions--questions that covered every detail
of that service of plate. It was soft, wasn't it? You could bite into a
plate and leave a dent? The handles of the knives, now, were they gold,
too? All the knife was made from one piece of gold, was it? And the
forks the same? The interior of the trunk was quilted, of course? Did
Maria ever polish the plates herself? When the company ate off this
service, it must have made a fine noise--these gold knives and forks
clinking together upon these gold plates.
"Now, let's have it all over again, Maria," pleaded Zerkow. "Begin
now with 'There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them
gold.' Go on, begin, begin, begin!"
The red-headed Pole was in a fever of excitement. Maria's recital had
become a veritable mania with him. As he listened, with closed eyes and
trembling lips, he fancied he could see that wonderful plate before him,
there on the table, under his eyes, under his hand, ponderous, massive,
gleaming. He tormented Maria into a second repetition of the story--into
a third. The more his mind dwelt upon it, the sharper grew his desire.
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