What need, one might ask, did Plyushkin have for such a mass of these artifacts? Never in all his life could they have been used even on two such estates as his—but to him it still seemed too little. Not satisfied with it, he walked about the streets of his village every day, looked under the little bridges and stiles, and whatever he came across—an old shoe sole, a woman’s rag, an iron nail, a potsherd—he carried off and added to the pile that Chichikov had noticed in the corner of the room. “The fisherman’s off in pursuit again!” the muzhiks would say, when they saw him going for his booty.
😂😂😂
