Liudmilla sprinkled Sasha with lusciously aromatic scents. Their aroma astonished Sasha. It was at once overpoweringly sweet, intoxicating and radiantly hazy—like a sinful golden sunrise seen through an early white mist. Sasha said:
"What a strange perfume!"
"Try it on your hand," advised Liudmilla.
And she gave him an ugly, four-cornered jar, rounded at the edges. Sasha looked at it against the light. It was a bright yellow liquid. It had a large, highly coloured label with a French inscription—it was cyclamen from Piver's. Sasha took hold of the flat glass stopper, pulled it out and smelled at the perfume. Then he did as Liudmilla liked to do—he put his palm on the mouth of the bottle, turned it over quickly and then turned it upright again. Then he rubbed between his palms the few drops of cyclamen that remained and smelled his hand attentively. The spirit in the scent evaporated and the pure aroma remained. Liudmilla looked at him with expectancy.
Sasha said indecisively:
"It smells a little of insects."
"Don't tell lies, please," said Liudmilla in vexation.
She put some of the scent on her hand and smelled it. Sasha repeated:
"Yes, of insects."
Liudmilla suddenly flared up, so that small tears glistened in her eyes. She struck Sasha across the cheek and cried: