Maslova.

"A convict," Maslova thought with horror, rubbing her eyes and
involuntarily inhaling the foul morning air. She wished to fall
asleep again, to transfer herself into a state of unconsciousness, but
fear overcame her drowsiness. She raised herself, crossed her legs
under her, and looked around. The women were already up, only the
children were still sleeping. The moonshining woman with bulging eyes
was carefully removing her coat from under them. The rioter was drying
near the oven some rags which served for swaddling cloths, while the
child, in the hands of the blue-eyed Theodosia, was crying at the top
of its lungs, the woman lulling it in a gentle voice. The consumptive,
seizing her breast, coughed violently, and, sighing at intervals,
almost screamed. The red-headed woman lay prone on her back relating a
dream she had had. The old incendiary stood before the image,
whispering the same words, crossing herself and bowing. The chanter's
daughter sat motionless on her cot, and with dull, half-open eyes was
looking into space. Miss Dandy was curling on her finger her oily,
rough, black hair.

Presently resounding steps were heard in the corridor, the lock
creaked open, and two prisoners in short jackets and gray trousers
scarcely reaching their ankles entered, and, raising the ill-smelling
vat on a yoke, carried it away. The women went to the faucets in the
corridor to wash themselves. The red-headed woman got into a quarrel
with a woman from the adjoining cell. Again there were cursing,
shouting and complaints.

"You will get into the dark-room yet," shouted the warden, and he
slapped the red-headed woman on her fat, bare back, so that it