Olenka herself had aged and grown homely.
In the summer she sat on the steps, and her soul was empty and dreary
and bitter. When she caught the breath of spring, or when the wind
wafted the chime of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories
would pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, and
the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that lasted only a moment.
Then would come emptiness again, and the feeling, What is the use of
living? The black kitten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred
softly, but the little creature's caresses left Olenka untouched. That
was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that would absorb
her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, that would give her
ideas, an object in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she
shook the black kitten off her skirt angrily, saying:
"Go away! What are you doing here?"
And so day after day, year after year not a single joy, not a single
opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was all right.
One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle were being
driven by, and the whole yard was filled with clouds of dust, there
was suddenly a knocking at the gate.
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