"What is it?" asked Pasha.

The lady did not at once answer. She took a step forward, slowly
looked about the room, and sat down in a way that suggested that
from fatigue, or perhaps illness, she could not stand; then for a
long time her pale lips quivered as she tried in vain to speak.

"Is my husband here?" she asked at last, raising to Pasha her big
eyes with their red tear-stained lids.

"Husband?" whispered Pasha, and was suddenly so frightened that her
hands and feet turned cold. "What husband?" she repeated, beginning
to tremble.

"My husband, . . . Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov."

"N . . . no, madam. . . . I . . . I don't know any husband."

A minute passed in silence. The stranger several times passed her
handkerchief over her pale lips and held her breath to stop her
inward trembling, while Pasha stood before her motionless, like a
post, and looked at her with astonishment and terror.

"So you say he is not here?" the lady asked, this time speaking
with a firm voice and smiling oddly.

"I . . . I don't know who it is you are asking about."

"You are horrid, mean, vile . . ." the stranger muttered, scanning
Pasha with hatred and repulsion. "Yes, yes . . . you are horrid. I