On the way he thought no more of money, but mused on the introduction that awaited him to the Petersburg savant, a writer on sociology, and what he would say to him about his book.
Only during the first days of his stay in Moscow Levin had been struck by the expenditure, strange to one living in the country, unproductive but inevitable, that was expected of him on every side.
But by now he had grown used to it.
That had happened to him in this matter which is said to happen to drunkards--the first glass sticks in the throat, the second flies down like a hawk, but after the third they're like tiny little birds.