When we saw this woman with the baby, we thought that it was her
child. To the question, "Who was she?" she had replied in a
straightforward way that she was unmarried. She did not say--a
prostitute. Only the master of the apartment made use of that
frightful word. The supposition that she had a child suggested to me
the idea of removing her from her position. I inquired:

"Is this your child?"

"No, it belongs to that woman yonder."

"Why are you taking care of it?"

"Because she asked me; she is dying."

Although my supposition proved to be erroneous, I continued my
conversation with her in the same spirit. I began to question her as
to who she was, and how she had come to such a state. She related
her history very readily and simply. She was a Moscow myeshchanka,
the daughter of a factory hand. She had been left an orphan, and had
been adopted by an aunt. From her aunt's she had begun to frequent
the taverns. The aunt was now dead. When I asked her whether she
did not wish to alter her mode of life, my question, evidently, did
not even arouse her interest. How can one take an interest in the
proposition of a man, in regard to something absolutely impossible?
She laughed, and said: "And who would take me in with my yellow
ticket?"

"Well, but if a place could be found somewhere as cook?" said I.