“Didn’t you go down the bank to look for it?” she asked.
“But I am telling you I have not a moment’s time now.”
The more irritation she betrayed, the more the other was tempted to nag her.
“But somebody must have picked it up. It cost you five rubles and you’ve not worn it ten times.”
“Beile! Beile!” Clara groaned.
“Tell me where it is. I’ll go and look for it myself. Maybe it is not yet too late. Lord of the World, five rubles!”
Clara was left with Ruchele, but she changed her mind.
“I think I’ll wait at Motl’s house,” she said, overtaking her sister, with the child by her side. “It’s nearer to my lesson.”
Motl, the trunk-finisher employed by their mother, lived a considerable distance from here. Beile gave her a look full of amazement and dawning intelligence.
“At Motl’s!” she whispered, sizing up Clara’s dishevelled appearance. “Where is your collar? A rend into my heart! What have you been doing to yourself? Anyhow, go to Motl’s. Or, no, go to Feige’s. That’s much better. I’ll bring you a hat in ten minutes.” Feige was a poor old relative of Beile’s by marriage.