BOLSHÓV. I said, stop it!
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What a father you are! And yet you call yourself one! Ah, my poor abandoned little girl, you're just like a little orphan with drooping head! He turns away from you, and won't recognize you! Sit down, Lipochka; sit down, little soul, my charming little darling! [She makes her sit down.
LÍPOCHKA. Oh, stop it, mamma! You've mussed me all up!
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. All right, then, I'll look at you from a distance.
LÍPOCHKA. Look if you want to, only don't rave! Fudge, mamma, one can't dress up properly without your going off into a sentimental fit.
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. So, so, my dear! But when I look at you, it seems such a pity.
LÍPOCHKA. Why so? It had to come some time.
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. All the same, it's a pity, you little fool. We've been raising you all these years, and you've grown up—but now for no reason at all we're giving you over to strangers, as if we were tired of you, and as if you bored us by your foolish childishness, and by your sweet behavior. Here, we'll pack you out of the house, like an enemy from the town; then we'll come to, and look around, and you'll be gone forever. Consider, good people, what it'll be like, living in some strange, far-away place, choking on another's bread, and wiping away your tears with your fist! Yes, good God, she's marrying beneath her; some blockhead will be butting in—a blockhead, the son of a blockhead! [She weeps.
LÍPOCHKA. There you go, crying! Honestly, aren't you ashamed, mamma? What do you mean by blockhead?
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [Weeping] The words came out of themselves. I couldn't help it.