"Look out that the boss doesn't see you!" we always warn her. She
laughs roguishly and cries to us cheerfully:

"Good-by, little prisoners!" and she disappears quickly, like a
little mouse. That's all. But long after her departure we speak
pleasantly of her to one another. We say the very same thing we said
yesterday and before, because she, as well as we and everything
around us, is also the same as yesterday and before. It is very hard
and painful for one to live, when nothing changes around him, and if
it does not kill his soul for good, the immobility of the
surroundings becomes all the more painful the longer he lives. We
always spoke of women in such a manner that at times we were
disgusted at our own rude and shameless words, and this is quite
clear, for the women we had known, perhaps, never deserved any better
words. But of Tanya we never spoke ill. Not only did none of us
ever dare to touch her with his hand, she never even heard a free
jest from us. It may be that this was because she never stayed long
with us; she flashed before our eyes like a star coming from the sky
and then disappeared, or, perhaps, because she was small and very
beautiful, and all that is beautiful commands the respect even of
rude people. And then, though our hard labor had turned us into dull
oxen, we nevertheless remained human beings, and like all human
beings, we could not live without worshipping something. We had
nobody better than she, and none, except her, paid any attention to
us, the dwellers of the cellar; no one, though tens of people lived
in the house. And finally--this is probably the main reason--we all
considered her as something of our own, as something that existed
only because of our biscuits. We considered it our duty to give her
hot biscuits and this became our daily offering to the idol, it
became almost a sacred custom which bound us to her the more every