Without letting the cigarette out of her mouth and screwing up her
eyes from the smoke, all she does is to turn the pages constantly
with a moistened finger. Her legs are bare to the knees; the
enormous balls of the feet are of the most vulgar form; below the
big toes stand out pointed, ugly, irregular tumours.

Here also, with her legs crossed, slightly bent, with some sewing,
sits Tamara--a quiet, easy-going, pretty girl, slightly reddish,
with that dark and shining tint of hair which is to be found on
the back of a fox in winter. Her real name is Glycera, or Lukeria,
as the common folk say it. But it is already an ancient usage of
the houses of ill-fame to replace the uncouth names of the
Matrenas, Agathas, Cyclitinias with sonorous, preferably exotic
names. Tamara had at one time been a nun, or, perhaps, merely a
novice in a convent, and to this day there have been preserved on
her face timidity and a pale puffiness--a modest and sly
expression, which is peculiar to young nuns. She holds herself
aloof in the house, does not chum with any one, does not initiate
any one into her past life. But in her case there must have been
many more adventures besides having been a nun: there is something
mysterious, taciturn and criminal in her unhurried speech, in the
evasive glance of her deep and dark-gold eyes from under the long,
lowered eyelashes, in her manners, her sly smiles and intonations
of a modest but wanton would-be saint. There was one occurrence
when the girls, with well-nigh reverent awe, heard that Tamara
could talk fluently in French and German. She has within her some
sort of an inner, restrained power. Notwithstanding her outward
meekness and complaisance, all in the establishment treat her with
respect and circumspection--the proprietress, and her mates, and