Early next morning the mother went to Marya Korsunova. The peddler,
noisy and greasy as usual, greeted her with friendly sympathy.
"You are grieving?" Marya asked, patting the mother on the back.
"Now, don't. They just took him, carried him off. Where is the
calamity? There is no harm in it. It used to be that men were
thrown into dungeons for stealing, now they are there for telling
the truth. Pavel may have said something wrong, but he stood up for
all, and they all know it. Don't worry! They don't all say so, but
they all know a good man when they see, him. I was going to call on
you right along, but had no time. I am always cooking and selling,
but will end my days a beggar, I guess, all the same. My needs get
the best of me, confound them! They keep nibbling and nibbling like
mice at a piece of cheese. No sooner do I manage to scrape together
ten rubles or so, when along comes some heathen, and makes away with
all my money. Yes. It's hard to be a woman! It's a wretched
business! To live alone is hard, to live with anyone, still harder!"
"And I came to ask you to take me as your assistant," Vlasova broke
in, interrupting her prattle.
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