And Volodya began to examine the shadows of the samovar, of the chairs, of his mother’s head, as well as the shadows cast on the table by the dishes; and he tried to catch a resemblance in all these shadows to something. His mother was speaking—Volodya was not listening properly.
“How is Lesha Sitnikov getting on at school?” asked his mother.
Volodya was studying then the shadow of the milk-jug. He gave a start, and answered hastily: “It’s a tom-cat.”
“Volodya, you must be asleep,” said his astonished mother. “What tom-cat?”
Volodya grew red.
“I don’t know what’s got into my head,” he said. “I’m sorry, mother, I wasn’t listening.”
IV
The next evening, before tea, Volodya again thought of his shadows, and gave himself up to them. One shadow insisted on turning out badly, no matter how hard he stretched and bent his fingers.
Volodya was so absorbed in this that he did not hear his mother coming. At the creaking of the door he quickly put the leaflet into his pocket and turned away, confused, from the wall. But his mother was already looking at his hands, and a tremor of fear lit up her eyes.
“What are you doing, Volodya? What have you hidden?”