after a pause, "but still she is an exceptional woman."

"Yes, she is very nice . . ." Sasha agreed. "Your mother, in her
own way of course, is a very good and sweet woman, but . . . how
shall I say? I went early this morning into your kitchen and there
I found four servants sleeping on the floor, no bedsteads, and rags
for bedding, stench, bugs, beetles . . . it is just as it was twenty
years ago, no change at all. Well, Granny, God bless her, what else
can you expect of Granny? But your mother speaks French, you know,
and acts in private theatricals. One would think she might understand."

As Sasha talked, he used to stretch out two long wasted fingers
before the listener's face.

"It all seems somehow strange to me here, now I am out of the habit
of it," he went on. "There is no making it out. Nobody ever does
anything. Your mother spends the whole day walking about like a
duchess, Granny does nothing either, nor you either. And your Andrey
Andreitch never does anything either."

Nadya had heard this the year before and, she fancied, the year
before that too, and she knew that Sasha could not make any other
criticism, and in old days this had amused her, but now for some
reason she felt annoyed.

"That's all stale, and I have been sick of it for ages," she said
and got up. "You should think of something a little newer."

He laughed and got up too, and they went together toward the house.
She, tall, handsome, and well-made, beside him looked very healthy