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From that day she never parted from her. Nastasya Karpovna was a woman of the most cheerful and gentle disposition, a widow without children, of a poor noble family; she had a round grey head, soft white hands, a soft face with large mild features, and a rather absurd turned-up nose; she stood in awe of Marfa Timofyevna, and the latter was very fond of her, though she laughed at her susceptibility.
Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. "Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again," observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; "how nice it smells!" Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.
"Now, please, don't try to deny it," pursued Marfa Timofyevna; "Shurotchka herself saw it all and told me. I have had to forbid her chattering, but she is not a liar." "I don't deny it, auntie," Lisa uttered scarcely audibly. "Ah, ah! That's it, is it, miss; you made an appointment with him, that old sinner, who seems so meek?" "No." "How then?"
Explain to me this minute, I beg you as a favour, what truth has come out and what do you mean by that?" "Why there it is, sitting before you!" and Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly pointed at Marya Timofyevna with that desperate determination which takes no heed of consequences, if only it can make an impression at the moment.
The next day Ivan Petrovitch wrote an ironically cold and polite letter to Piotr Andreitch, and set off to the village where lived his second cousin, Dmitri Pestov, with his sister, already known to the reader, Marfa Timofyevna. He told them all, announced his intention to go to Petersburg to try to obtain a post there, and besought them, at least for a time, to give his wife a home.
"Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you," Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief. "It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow. Ah, my darling, the only thing that can't be cured is death.
"Nothing!" cried Marfa Timofyevna; "you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes? Nothing! do you suppose I don't know all?" "It will pass off, auntie; give me time." "It will pass of, but when?
In the space of a few days Lisa had become quite different from what she was as he knew her: in her movements, her voice, her very laugh a secret tremor, an unevenness never there before was apparent. Marya Dmitrievna, like a true egoist, suspected nothing; but Marfa Timofyevna began to keep a watch over her favourite.
"Are you very ill?" she asked sympathetically, looking at him in a peculiar way. "Good heavens! And this man wants to do without me!" "Listen, Dasha, now I'm always seeing phantoms. One devil offered me yesterday, on the bridge, to murder Lebyadkin and Marya Timofyevna, to settle the marriage difficulty, and to cover up all traces.
And then all of a sudden, as though in a dream or delirium, it seemed to the bishop as though his own mother Marya Timofyevna, whom he had not seen for nine years, or some old woman just like his mother, came up to him out of the crowd, and, after taking a palm branch from him, walked away looking at him all the while good-humouredly with a kind, joyful smile until she was lost in the crowd.
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