cupboards were full of plate and silver; there were old Dresden cups and
figures, Chinese ornaments, tea-pots, sugar-basins, heavy old spoons.
Round stools bound with brass, and inlaid tables stood in pleasant
corners.

In Tatiana Markovna's sitting-room stood an old-fashioned carved bureau
with a mirror, urns, lyres, and genii. But she had hung up the mirror,
because she said it was a hindrance to writing when you stared at your
own stupid face. The room also contained a round table where she lunched
and drank her tea and coffee, and a rather hard leather-covered armchair
with a high back. Grandmother [1] was old-fashioned; she did not approve
of lounging, but held herself upright and was simple and reserved in
her manners.

How beautiful Boris thought her! And indeed she was beautiful.

Tall, neither stout nor thin, a vivacious old lady ... not indeed an old
lady, but a woman of fifty, with quick black eyes, and so kind and
gracious a smile that even when she was angry, and the storm-light
flickered in her eyes, the blue sky could be observed behind the clouds.
She had a slight moustache, and, on her left cheek, near the chin, a
birth-mark with a little bunch of hairs, details which gave her face a
remarkable expression of kindness.

She cut her grey hair short, and went about in house, yard, garden with
her head uncovered, but on feast days, or when guests were expected she
put on a cap. The cap could not be kept in its place, and did not suit
her at all, so that after about five minutes she would with apologies
remove the tiresome headdress.