The jailer, rattling the iron padlock, opened the door of the
cell, from which there came a whiff of air fouler even than that
in the corridor, and called out, "Maslova! to the Court," and
closed the door again.

Even into the prison yard the breeze had brought the fresh
vivifying air from the fields. But in the corridor the air was
laden with the germs of typhoid, the smell of sewage,
putrefaction, and tar; every newcomer felt sad and dejected in
it. The woman warder felt this, though she was used to bad air.
She had just come in from outside, and entering the corridor, she
at once became sleepy.

From inside the cell came the sound of bustle and women's voices,
and the patter of bare feet on the floor.

"Now, then, hurry up, Maslova, I say!" called out the jailer, and
in a minute or two a small young woman with a very full bust came
briskly out of the door and went up to the jailer. She had on a
grey cloak over a white jacket and petticoat. On her feet she
wore linen stockings and prison shoes, and round her head was
tied a white kerchief, from under which a few locks of black hair
were brushed over the forehead with evident intent. The face of
the woman was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have lived
long in confinement, and which puts one in mind of shoots of
potatoes that spring up in a cellar. Her small broad hands and
full neck, which showed from under the broad collar of her cloak,
were of the same hue. Her black, sparkling eyes, one with a
slight squint, appeared in striking contrast to the dull pallor