“In everything the will of God, madam,” said Chichikov with a sigh. “Against the divine wisdom it is not for us to rebel. Pray hand them over to me, Nastasia Petrovna.” “Hand over whom?” “The dead peasants.” “But how could I do that?” “Quite simply. Sell them to me, and I will give you some money in exchange.” “But how am I to sell them to you? I scarcely understand what you mean. Am I to dig them up again from the ground?”
