box or a drawing?"

There was nothing else to be done. With a trembling hand held out the
folded, fatal paper, but my voiced failed me completely and I stood
before Grandmamma in silence. I could not get rid of the dreadful idea
that, instead of a display of the expected drawing, some bad verses of
mine were about to be read aloud before every one, and that the words
"our Mother dear" would clearly prove that I had never loved, but had
only forgotten, her. How shall I express my sufferings when Grandmamma
began to read my poetry aloud?--when, unable to decipher it, she stopped
half-way and looked at Papa with a smile (which I took to be one of
ridicule)?--when she did not pronounce it as I had meant it to be
pronounced?--and when her weak sight not allowing her to finish it, she
handed the paper to Papa and requested him to read it all over again
from the beginning? I fancied that she must have done this last because
she did not like to read such a lot of stupid, crookedly written stuff
herself, yet wanted to point out to Papa my utter lack of feeling. I
expected him to slap me in the face with the verses and say, "You bad
boy! So you have forgotten your Mamma! Take that for it!" Yet nothing
of the sort happened. On the contrary, when the whole had been read,
Grandmamma said, "Charming!" and kissed me on the forehead. Then our
presents, together with two cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and a snuff-box
engraved with Mamma's portrait, were laid on the table attached to the
great Voltairian arm-chair in which Grandmamma always sat.

"The Princess Barbara Ilinitsha!" announced one of the two footmen who
used to stand behind Grandmamma's carriage, but Grandmamma was looking
thoughtfully at the portrait on the snuff-box, and returned no answer.

"Shall I show her in, madam?" repeated the footman.