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When the mother opened the door for her she threw a little yellow valise on the floor, and quickly seizing Vlasova's hand, asked: "Are you the mother of Pavel Mikhaylovich?" "Yes, I am," the mother replied, embarrassed by the lady's rich appearance. "That's the way I imagined you," said the lady, removing her hat in front of the mirror. "We have been friends of Pavel Mikhaylovich a long time.
Vlasova's neighbor, Marya Korsunova, the blacksmith's widow, who sold food at the factory, on meeting the mother in the market place also said to her: "Look out for your son, Pelagueya!" "What's the matter?" "They're talking!" Marya tendered the information in a hushed voice. "And they don't say any good, mother of mine!
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