United States or Guinea ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Polinka bends still lower over the counter and asks softly: "And why did you leave us so early on Thursday, Nikolay Timofeitch?" "Hm! It's queer you noticed it," says the shopman, with a smirk. "You were so taken up with that fine student that . . . it's queer you noticed it!" Polinka flushes crimson and remains mute.
And if he hangs about and carries on with you, we know what he is after. . . . When he's a doctor or a lawyer he'll remember you: 'Ah, he'll say, 'I used to have a pretty fair little thing! I wonder where she is now? Even now I bet you he boasts among his friends that he's got his eye on a little dressmaker." Polinka sits down and gazes pensively at the pile of white boxes.
"Pretend to be looking at the things," Nikolay Timofeitch whispers, bending down to Polinka with a forced smile. "Dear me, you do look pale and ill; you are quite changed. He'll throw you over, Pelagea Sergeevna! Or if he does marry you, it won't be for love but from hunger; he'll be tempted by your money. He'll furnish himself a nice home with your dowry, and then be ashamed of you.
"I don't know," whispers Polinka, and she bends over the buttons; "I don't know myself what's come to me, Nikolay Timofeitch." A solid shopman with whiskers forces his way behind Nikolay Timofeitch's back, squeezing him to the counter, and beaming with the choicest gallantry, shouts: "Be so kind, madam, as to step into this department.
Polinka, a thin fair little person whose mother is the head of a dressmaking establishment, is standing in the middle of the shop looking about for some one. A dark-browed boy runs up to her and asks, looking at her very gravely: "What is your pleasure, madam?" "Nikolay Timofeitch always takes my order," answers Polinka.
Ever since autumn he's been hanging about you and you go for a walk with him almost every day; and when he is with you, you gaze at him as though he were an angel. You are in love with him; there's no one to beat him in your eyes. Well, all right, then, it's no good talking." Polinka remains dumb and moves her finger on the counter in embarrassment. "I see it all," the shopman goes on.
Come to the corset department, I'll screen you it looks awkward." With a forced smile and exaggeratedly free and easy manner, the shopman rapidly conducts Polinka to the corset department and conceals her from the public eye behind a high pyramid of boxes. "What sort of corset may I show you?" he asks aloud, whispering immediately: "Wipe your eyes!"
"It's a French trimming, pure silk. . . . We have a commoner sort, if you like, heavier. That's forty-five kopecks a yard; of course, it's nothing like the same quality." "I want a bead corselet, too, with gimp buttons," says Polinka, bending over the gimp and sighing for some reason. "And have you any bead motifs to match?" "Yes."
"These are not reed or steel, but real whalebone. . . . What is there for us to talk about? It's no use talking. . . . You are going for a walk with him to-day, I suppose?" "Yes; I . . . I am." "Then what's the use of talking? Talk won't help. . . . You are in love, aren't you?" "Yes . . ." Polinka whispers hesitatingly, and big tears gush from her eyes.
We have three kinds of jerseys: plain, braided, and trimmed with beads! Which may I have the pleasure of showing you?" At the same time a stout lady passes by Polinka, pronouncing in a rich, deep voice, almost a bass: "They must be seamless, with the trade mark stamped in them, please."
Word Of The Day