"Lizanka, you are crying again . . . again," she said, hugging her
daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is!
Have pity on me! Tell me."

Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and
took Liza's hand.

"Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there
is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't
cry; that's no good. . . ."

And inwardly he thought:

"It's high time she was married. . . ."

"Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess,
"but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that
if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops. . . .
I forget the name. . . . Convallaria, isn't it?"

And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor,
preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face,
as though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the
house, she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor,
and on no other subject but medicine.

Korolyov felt bored.

"I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother