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Updated: May 23, 2025
Now that music is merely irritating and oppressive, because it goads her to sleep, and she must not sleep; if Varka God forbid! should fall asleep, her master and mistress would beat her. The lamp flickers. The patch of green and the shadows are set in motion, forcing themselves on Varka's fixed, half-open eyes, and in her half slumbering brain are fashioned into misty visions.
But now, at last, the visitors have gone; the lights are put out, the master and mistress go to bed. "Varka, rock the baby!" she hears the last order. The cricket churrs in the stove; the green patch on the ceiling and the shadows from the trousers and the baby-clothes force themselves on Varka's half-opened eyes again, wink at her and cloud her mind.
But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoes dance before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her fat, angry mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked up, talking so loud that it makes a ringing in Varka's ears.
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