FOMÍNISHNA. Not a mop, but the hair that God gave him, miss, that's it.
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. See what a rough old codger your dad is; he doesn't trim his beard; yet, somehow, you manage to kiss him.
LÍPOCHKA. Dad is one thing, but my husband is another. But why do you insist, mamma? I have already said that I won't marry a merchant, and I won't! I'd rather die first; I'll cry to the end of my life; if tears give out, I'll swallow pepper.
FOMÍNISHNA. Are you getting ready to bawl? Don't you think of it!—What fun do you get out of teasing her, Agraféna Kondrátyevna?
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Who's teasing her? She's mighty touchy.
USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, well, if you've got your mind set on a nobleman, we'll find you one. What sort do you want; rather stout, or rather lean?
LÍPOCHKA. Doesn't matter, it's all right if he's rather stout, so long as he's no shorty. Of course he'd better be tall than an insignificant little runt! And most of all, Ustinya Naúmovna, he mustn't be snub-nosed, and he absolutely must be dark-complexioned. It's understood, of course, that he must be dressed like the men in the magazines. [She glances at the mirror] Oh, Lord, my hair looks like a feather-duster to-day!
USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Now, my jewel, I have a husband for you of the very sort you describe: aristocratic, tall, and brown-complected.
LÍPOCHKA. Oh, Ustinya Naúmovna! Not brown-complected, but dark-complexioned!
USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Yes, much I need, in my old age, to split my tongue talking your lingo. What I said, goes. He has peasants, and wears a norder about his neck. Now you go get dressed, and your mamma and I will talk this thing over.