“Auntie, surely you’re not angry?” she faltered with a sort of flippant playfulness.
“Wh-a-a-t?” Varvara Petrovna started, and drew herself up in her chair. “I’m not your aunt. What are you thinking of?”
Marya Timofyevna, not expecting such an angry outburst, began trembling all over in little convulsive shudders, as though she were in a fit, and sank back in her chair.
“I … I … thought that was the proper way,” she faltered, gazing open-eyed at Varvara Petrovna. “Liza called you that.”
“What Liza?”
“Why, this young lady here,” said Marya Timofyevna, pointing with her finger.
“So she’s Liza already?”
“You called her that yourself just now,” said Marya Timofyevna growing a little bolder. “And I dreamed of a beauty like that,” she added, laughing, as it were accidentally.
Varvara Petrovna reflected, and grew calmer, she even smiled faintly at Marya Timofyevna’s last words; the latter, catching her smile, got up from her chair, and limping, went timidly towards her.
“Take it. I forgot to give it back. Don’t be angry with my rudeness.”