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Updated: May 7, 2025
A poet who flourished somewhere about 1840, Krasov, wrote a poem on her, ending with the words: 'Unhappy Clara! poor frantic Clara! Unhappy Clara Mowbray! Aratov knew this poem also.... And now these words were incessantly haunting his memory.... 'Unhappy Clara!
Niura, through her nose, leads in a high voice. Liuba seconds her with a stifled alto: "Monday now is come again, They're supposed to get me out; Doctor Krasov won't let me out ..." In all the houses the windows are brightly lit, while hanging lanterns are burning before the entrances.
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