If you could only see how much careful attention, how much
tender care Anna Markovna expends that her daughter may not
somehow, accidentally, find out about her profession. And
everything is for Birdie, everything is for the sake of Birdie.
And she herself dare not even converse before her, is afraid of
her lexicon of a bawd and an erstwhile prostitute, looks into her
eyes, holds herself servilely, like an old servant, like a
foolish, doting nurse, like an old, faithful, mange-eaten poodle.
It is long since time for her to retire to rest, because she has
money, and because her occupation is both arduous and troublesome,
and because her years are already venerable. But no and no; one
more extra thousand is needed, and then more and more--everything
for Birdie. And so Birdie has horses, Birdie has an English
governess, Birdie is every year taken abroad, Birdie has diamonds
worth forty thousand--the devil knows whose they are, these
diamonds? And it isn't that I am merely convinced, but I know
well, that for the happiness of this same Birdie, nay, not even
for her happiness, but, let us suppose that Birdie gets a hangnail
on her little finger--well then, in order that this hangnail might
pass away--imagine for a second the possibility of such a state of
things!--Anna Markovna, without the quiver of an eyelash, will
sell into corruption our sisters and daughters, will infect all of
us and our sons with syphilis.
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