"Treat me to a smoke, you beautiful little brunet!" Verka turned
to Petrov; and as though by accident put against his leg her
strong, warm thigh, closely drawn over with white tights. "What an
agreeable little fellow you are!"
"But where's Jennie?" Gladishev asked of Tamara. "Is she busy with
anybody?"
Tamara looked him in the eyes intently--looked so fixedly, that
the boy even began to feel uncomfortable, and turned away.
"No. Why should she be busy? Only the whole day to-day her head
ached; she was walking through the corridor, and at that time the
housekeeper opened the door quickly and accidentally struck her in
the forehead--and so her head started in to ache. The poor thing,
she's lying the whole day with a cold pack. But why? Or can't you
hold out? Wait a while, she'll come out in five minutes. You'll
remain very much satisfied with her."
Verka pestered Petrov:
"Sweetie, dearie, what a tootsie-wootsicums you are! I adore such
pale brunets; they are jealous and very fiery in love."
And suddenly she started singing in a low voice:
"He's kind of brown,
My light, my own,
Won't sell me out, and won't deceive.
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