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"I have not forgotten, dearest," he said again. "There is a veil over yesterday I think I must have been ill but I know what you did for me and and " he hesitated as though seeking an expression. For a few seconds again the poor girl felt the agony of suspense she knew so well. "I do not know what right a man so poor as I has to say such a thing, Vjera," he continued.
"But Vjera never thought it of me and that fellow is evidently the worse for liquor." Johann Schmidt had not fled from the scene of action out of any consideration for his personal safety. He was, indeed, a braver man than Dumnoff, in proportion as he was more intelligent, and though of a very different temper, by no means averse to a fight if it came into his way.
Here is the skin. Do you see? I am afraid this is a very big hole and the hair comes out in handfuls. Look at it." "It was a very old wolf," remarked the Cossack, holding the skin up under the gaslight. "Does that make it worth less?" asked Vjera anxiously. "Not of itself; on the contrary. And I can mend the hole, if you have the thread and needle.
It is a pity that you should love a madman " "O, don't, Herr Schmidt please don't!" cried Vjera, imploring him to be silent as much with her eyes as with her voice. "No, but really," continued the other, as though talking to himself, "there are things that go beyond all imagination in this world. Now, who would ever have thought of such a thing?"
"Do you not think that I could hold a match for you, to make a little more light? You always have some with you." "Wait a moment yes I have almost finished the seam here is the box. Now, if you can hold the match just there, just over the needle, and keep it from going out, I can finish the end off neatly." Vjera knelt down beside him and held the flickering bit of wood as well as she was able.
Beside Vjera sits another girl, less pale perhaps, but more insignificant in feature, and similarly occupied, with this slight difference that the little cylinders she makes are straw-coloured when Vjera is making white ones, and white when her companion is using straw-coloured paper.
Of course not!" she exclaimed, immediately afterwards, with an attempt to express conviction. "There is one thing there is the old samovar," continued the Cossack. "It has a leak in one side, and we make the tea as we can, when we have any. But I remember that I once pawned it, years ago, for five marks." "That would make thirty," said Vjera promptly.
God knows, they treated me ill when they were alive, but death has them at last." The Count's eyes grew suddenly cold and hard, so that Vjera shuddered as she caught the look of hatred in them. "Death, death, death!" he cried. "Death the judge, the gaoler, the executioner!
"Vjera, dear," he said, bending down to her, "will you come with me, now?" She looked up, suddenly, and her face was very white and drawn, and wet with tears. "Oh no, no!" she said in a low voice. "How can I ever be worthy of you, since it is really true?" But the Count put his arm round the poor little shell-maker's waist, and made her stand beside him in the midst of them all.
The reflection of the steel flashed in the mirror, as the artist quickly opened and shut the scissors, with that peculiar shuffling jingle which only barbers can produce. "Wait a minute!" cried Vjera, with sudden anxiety, and turning her head as though to draw away her hair from his grasp. "One minute please fifteen and thirty-five are really fifty, are they not?"
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