This was her condition to-day; and, therefore,
Sofya's question was all the more displeasing to her.
"There's no use for you to ask me whether or not I'm afraid and
various other things," she sighed. "I've nothing to be afraid of.
Those people are afraid who have something. What have I? Only a
son. I used to be afraid for him, and I used to fear torture for
his sake. And if there is no torture--well, then?"
"Are you offended?" exclaimed Sofya.
"No. Only you don't ask each other whether you're afraid."
Nikolay removed his glasses, adjusted them to his nose again, and
looked fixedly at his sister's face. The embarrassed silence that
followed disturbed the mother. She rose guiltily from her seat,
wishing to say something to them, but Sofya stroked her hand, and
said quietly:
"Forgive me! I won't do it any more."
The mother had to laugh, and in a few minutes the three were
speaking busily and amicably about the trip to the village.
CHAPTER X
The next day, early in the morning, the mother was seated in the
post chaise, jolting along the road washed by the autumn rain. A
damp wind blew on her face, the mud splashed, and the coachman on
the box, half-turned toward her, complained in a meditative snuffle:
"I say to him--my brother, that is--let's go halves.
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