Over them burned the kindly spring sun. The blue depths flashed
softly. At the sides of the road stretched a dark pine forest. The
fields were verdant, birds sang, and the thick, resinous atmosphere
stroked the face warmly and tenderly.
All this moved the mother's heart nearer to the woman with the
bright eyes and the bright soul; and, trying to keep even pace with
her, she involuntarily pressed close to Sofya, as if desiring to
draw into herself her hearty boldness and freshness.
"How young you are!" the mother sighed.
"I'm thirty-two years old already!"
Vlasova smiled. "I'm not talking about that. To judge by your
face, one would say you're older; but one wonders that your eyes,
your voice are so fresh, so springlike, as if you were a young girl.
Your life is so bard and troubled, yet your heart is smiling."
"The heart is smiling," repeated Sofya thoughtfully. "How well you
speak--simple and good. A hard life, you say? But I don't feel
that it is hard, and I cannot imagine a better, a more interesting
life than this."
"What pleases me more than anything else is to see how you all know
the roads to a human being's heart. Everything in a person opens
itself out to you without fear or caution--just so, all of itself,
the heart throws itself open to meet you.
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