"
And, having kissed Jennka's hand once more, he was the last to go
down the stairs.
CHAPTER VIII.
On Thursday, since very morning, a ceaseless, fine drizzle had
begun to fall, and so the leaves of the chestnuts, acacias, and
poplars had at once turned green. And, suddenly, it became somehow
dreamily quiet and protractedly tedious. Pensive and monotonous.
During this all the girls had gathered, as usual, in Jennka's
room. But something strange was going on within her. She did not
utter witticisms, did not laugh, did not read, as always, her
usual yellow-back novel which was now lying aimlessly either on
her breast or stomach; but was vicious, wrapped up in sadness, and
in her eyes blazed a yellow fire that spoke of hatred. In vain did
Little White Manka, Manka the Scandaliste, who adored her, try to
turn her attention to herself--Jennka seemed not to notice her,
and the conversation did not at all get on. It was depressing. But
it may have been that the August drizzle, which had steadily set
in for several weeks running, reacted upon all of them.
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