the keys of the old pianoforte with the index finger, lazily lay
out cards to tell their fortune, lazily exchange curses, and with
a languishing irritation await the evening.

Liubka, after breakfast, had carried out the leavings of bread and
the cuttings of ham to Amour, but the dog had soon palled upon
her. Together with Niura she had bought some barberry bon-bons and
sunflower seeds, and now both are standing behind the fence
separating the house from the street, gnawing the seeds, the
shells of which remain on their chins and bosoms, and speculate
indifferently about those who pass on the street: about the lamp-
lighter, pouring kerosene into the street lamps, about the
policeman with the daily registry book under his arm, about the
housekeeper from somebody else's establishment, running across the
road to the general store.

Niura is a small girl, with goggle-eyes of blue; she has white,
flaxen hair and little blue veins on her temples. In her face
there is something stolid and innocent, reminiscent of a white
sugar lamb on a Paschal cake. She is lively, bustling, curious,
puts her nose into everything, agrees with everybody, is the first
to know the news, and, when she speaks, she speaks so much and so
rapidly that spray flies out of her mouth and bubbles
effervescence on the red lips, as in children.

Opposite, out of the dram-shop, a servant pops out for a minute--a
curly, besotted young fellow with a cast in his eye--and runs into
the neighbouring public house.

"Prokhor Ivanovich, oh Prokhor Ivanovich," shouts Niura, "don't