"We ought
to build a bridge across the bog of this rotten life to a future
of soulful goodness. That's our task, that's what we have to do,
comrades!"
"When the time is come to fight, it's not the time to cure the
finger," said Vyesovshchikov dully.
"There will be enough breaking of our bones before we get to
fighting!" the Little Russian put in merrily.
It was already past midnight when the group began to break up.
The first to go were Vyesovshchikov and the red-haired man--which
again displeased the mother.
"Hm! How they hurry!" she thought, nodding them a not very friendly
farewell.
"Will you see me home, Nakhodka?" asked Natasha.
"Why, of course," answered the Little Russian.
When Natasha put on her wraps in the kitchen, the mother said to
her: "Your stockings are too thin for this time of the year. Let
me knit some woolen ones for you, will you, please?"
"Thank you, Pelagueya Nilovna. Woolen stockings scratch," Natasha
answered, smiling.
"I'll make them so they won't scratch."
Natasha looked at her rather perplexedly, and her fixed serious
glance hurt the mother.
"Pardon me my stupidity; like my good will, it's from my heart,
you know," she added in a low voice.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64