Jennka was not even beginning to dress yet. She was sitting before
the mirror and powdering her face.
"What is it, Tamarochka?" she asked.
"Your little cadet has come to you. He's waiting."
"Ah, that's the little baby of last year... Well, the devil with
him!"
"And that's right, too. But how healthy and handsome the lad has
grown, and how tall... It's a delight, that's all! So if you don't
want to, I'll go myself."
Tamara saw in the mirror how Jennka contracted her eyebrows.
"No, you wait a while, Tamara, don't. I'll see. Send him here to
me. Say that I'm not well, that my head aches."
"I have already told him, anyway, that Zociya had opened the door
unsuccessfully and hit you on the head; and that you're lying down
with a cold pack. But the only thing is, is it worth while,
Jennechka?"
"Whether it's worth while or not, that's not your business,
Tamara," answered Jennka rudely.
Tamara asked cautiously:
"Is it possible, then, that you aren't at all, at all sorry?"
"But for me you aren't sorry?" and she passed her hand over the
red stripe that slashed her throat.
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