"Three and a half," he said, handing her the money.

"I had hoped it would be worth more," she answered, putting the coins with
the rest.

"No. He weighed it with silver marks. It weighed just four of them, and he
said he must have half a mark to make it worth his while."

"Very well," said Vjera, "it is always something. I have twenty-eight and
a half now."

When they reached her lodging Schmidt set down the samovar upon the
pavement and made himself a cigarette, while he waited for her. She was
gone a long time, as it seemed to him, and he was beginning to wonder
whether anything had happened, when she suddenly made her appearance,
noiseless in her walk, as always. The old wolf's skin was hung over one
shoulder, and she carried besides a limp-looking brown paper parcel, tied
with a bit of folded ribband. As he caught sight of her face in the light
of the street lamp, Schmidt fancied that she was paler than before, and
that her cheek was wet.

"I am sorry I was so long," she said. "The little sister cried because I
would not stay, and I had to quiet her. Here is the skin. Do you see? I am
afraid this is a very big hole--and the hair comes out in handfuls. Look
at it."

"It was a very old wolf," remarked the Cossack, holding the skin up under
the gaslight.

"Does that make it worth less?" asked Vjera anxiously.