Ach, Shatushka, Shatushka, my dear, why do you never ask me about anything?”
“Why, you won’t tell. That’s why I don’t ask.”
“I won’t tell, I won’t tell,” she answered quickly. “You may kill me, I won’t tell. You may burn me, I won’t tell. And whatever I had to bear I’d never tell, people won’t find out!”
“There, you see. Every one has something of their own,” Shatov said, still more softly, his head drooping lower and lower.
“But if you were to ask perhaps I should tell, perhaps I should!” she repeated ecstatically. “Why don’t you ask? Ask, ask me nicely, Shatushka, perhaps I shall tell you. Entreat me, Shatushka, so that I shall consent of myself. Shatushka, Shatushka!”
But Shatushka was silent. There was complete silence lasting a minute. Tears slowly trickled down her painted cheeks. She sat forgetting her two hands on Shatov’s shoulders, but no longer looking at him.
“Ach, what is it to do with me, and it’s a sin.” Shatov suddenly got up from the bench.
“Get up!” He angrily pulled the bench from under me and put it back where it stood before.
“He’ll be coming, so we must mind he doesn’t guess. It’s time we were off.”
“Ach, you’re talking of my footman,” Marya Timofyevna laughed suddenly. “You’re afraid of him. Well, good-bye, dear visitors, but listen for one minute, I’ve something to tell you. That Nilitch came here with Filipov, the landlord, a red beard, and my fellow had flown at me just then, so the landlord caught hold of him and pulled him about the room while he shouted ‘It’s not my fault, I’m suffering for another man’s sin!’ So would you believe it, we all burst out laughing.…”