"In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."

"You don't say so."

He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled
with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up
collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and
the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up
on account of the dew, touched him.

"Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from
here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a
thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders;
you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you
a heron. . . . What time does!"

"Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then.
Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in
the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you?
You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody
. . . . To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha,
I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."

"I do, Tanya."

"On your word of honour?"

"Yes, on my word of honour."