"It gives one joy—the gentle and sunny cyclamen—it draws one towards desires, which give sweetness and shame, and it stirs the blood. Do you understand, my little sun, when it feels sweet and happy and sad and one wants to cry? Do you understand? That's what it is."
She pressed her lips in a long kiss on Sasha's. Liudmilla looked pensively in front of her. Suddenly a smile came across her lips. She lightly pushed Sasha away and asked:
"Do you like roses?"
Sasha sighed, opened his eyes, smiled tenderly and whispered:
"Yes."
"Large roses?" asked Liudmilla.
"Yes, all sorts—large and small," replied Sasha quickly, and he gracefully left her knees.
"And so you like rosotchki[1] (little roses)?" asked Liudmilla gently, and her sonorous voice trembled from suppressed laughter.
"Yes, I like them," answered Sasha quickly. Liudmilla began to laugh.
"You stupid, you like rosotchki (strokes with a rod), and there's no one to whip you," she exclaimed.