"Make me a present of it," she had begged.

"No, Tanechka, I will not give it to you.

But perhaps you will soon have another ring upon your finger."

For some reason or other they all in turn had thought that she would
doubtless soon marry, and this had offended her-she wanted no husband.
And recalling these half-jesting conversations with Musya, and the
fact that now Musya was actually condemned to death, she choked with
tears in her maternal pity. And each time the clock struck she raised
her tear-stained face and listened-how were they in the other cells
receiving this drawn-out, persistent call of death?

But Musya was happy.

With her hands folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner's garb
which was much too large for her, and which made her look very much
like a man-like a stripling dressed in some one else's clothes-she
paced her cell evenly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the coat were too
long for her, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish,
emaciated hands peeped out of the wide holes like a beautiful flower
out of a coarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her
thin white neck, and sometimes Musya would free her throat with both
hands and would cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was
red and smarted.

Musya paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that
she was justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify
herself for the fact that she, who was so young, so insignificant, who