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Updated: May 18, 2025
Picking out the very biggest apple in the store-room he stole into the kitchen, slipped it into Pelageya's hand, and darted headlong away. NIGHT. Varka, the little nurse, a girl of thirteen, is rocking the cradle in which the baby is lying, and humming hardly audibly: "Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, While I sing a song for thee."
All the dishes were too salt, and blood oozed from the half-raw chickens, and, to cap it all, plates and knives kept dropping out of Pelageya's hands during dinner, as though from a shelf that had given way; but no one said a word of blame to her, as they all understood the state of her feelings.
Pelageya's relations with him contained all the passion of a mistress, all that power of feeling which women of her age put into their passion when drinking the last drops from the cup of life.
Beside her stood the cabman. The happy pair were red in the face and perspiring and blinking with embarrassment. "Well . . . I fancy it is time," said the non-commissioned officer, after a prolonged silence. Pelageya's face worked all over and she began blubbering. . . . The soldier took a big loaf from the table, stood beside nurse, and began blessing the couple.
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