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Updated: June 15, 2025
M. Lichinsky and his mother passed on to the Tyrol, where Madame would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health.
And I can't get her to do anything for, me. She has no time for, me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I never see her for hours together." "Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does," said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky.
"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!" Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room. She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She spoke, with a whirlwind of Polish words.
It is sometimes difficult to know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his confederates, and shrugged his shoulders. "Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly.
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