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Updated: May 2, 2025
A quiet, white boy was looking at the sisters through the crevice with an inviting glance. The sisters exchanged irresolute glances. "Shall we go in, Vetochka ?" asked Elena. "Yes, let's go in," said Elisaveta. The sisters entered and found themselves in the garden. They found old Elikonida at the entrance.
"Elena is from Colombia." She gave the names their Spanish sounds. Oliver wanted to put his arms around her and keep her from harm forever. "We have two mommies." She concentrated. "We each have two mommies. We are sisters, now." "Lucky girls," Oliver said. "Where's your mommy?" "Connecticut," Oliver said. "Far away." "Oh." Maria nodded sympathetically.
Elena was on the point of stopping him, but after a moment's thought she too said: 'Good-bye. Shubin went out of the courtyard. At a short distance from the Stahov's house he was met by Bersenyev. He was walking with hurried steps, his head bent and his hat pushed back on his neck. 'Andrei Petrovitch! cried Shubin. He stopped.
All ill-used creatures, starved dogs, cats condemned to death, sparrows fallen out of the nest, even insects and reptiles found a champion and protector in Elena; she fed them herself, and felt no repugnance for them.
Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back with the other hand; he began kissing the other hand too. Elena drew it away, he threw back his head, she looked into his face, bent above him, and their lips touched. An instant passed... she broke away, got up, whispered 'No, no, and went quickly up to the writing-table.
"Time, destined as we thought but to befriend And guerdon love like ours, finds you beset With joys and griefs I neither share nor mend Who am a stranger; and we two are met Nor wholly glad nor sorry; and the end Of too much laughter is a faint regret." R.E. TOWNSEND. Sonnets for Elena.
It is so Venetian, indeed, that it wants but a few silent gondolas and noisy gondoliers, in place of the dark, taciturn oarsmen of the clumsy native boats, to complete the coming and going illusion; and there is no good reason why the rough little isles that fill the bay should not call themselves respectively San Giorgio and San Clemente, and Sant' Elena and San Lazzaro: they probably have no other names!
And, meanwhile, it has been downtrodden, it has been ravaged, he went on, with an involuntary movement of his arm, and his face darkened; 'we have been robbed of everything; everything, our churches, our laws, our lands; the unclean Turks drive us like cattle, butcher us 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch! cried Elena. He stopped. 'I beg your pardon. I can't speak of this coolly.
Insarov lay down on the very little sofa on which Elena had lately sat; he thought: 'It serves me right for going to that old rascal, and he tried to sleep.... But the illness had by now complete mastery of him. His veins were throbbing violently, his blood was on fire, his thoughts were flying round like birds. He sank into forgetfulness.
They trudged along, tired out, and mused as they went.... In their village, they mused, the people were good, quiet, sensible, fearing God, and Elena Ivanovna, too, was quiet, kind, and gentle; it made one sad to look at her, but why had they not got on together? Why had they parted like enemies?
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