Volodya stood uneasily at the table, like a truant caught, and he turned the pages of the leaflet with hot fingers.
“Give it to me,” said his mother.
Volodya, confused, put out his hand with the leaflet. His mother took it, said nothing, and went out; while Volodya sat down over his copy-books.
He felt ashamed that, by his stubbornness, he had offended his mother, and he felt vexed that she had taken the booklet from him; he was even more vexed at himself for letting the matter go so far. He felt his awkward position, and his vexation with his mother troubled him: he had scruples in being angry with her, yet he couldn’t help it. And because he had scruples he felt even more angry.
“Well, let her take it,” he said to himself at last, “I can get along without it.”
And, in truth, Volodya had the figures in his memory, and used the little book merely for verification.
XI
In the meantime his mother opened the little book with the shadows—and became lost in thought.
“I wonder what’s fascinating about them?” she mused. “It is strange that such a good, clever boy should suddenly, become wrapped up in such nonsense! No, that means it’s not mere nonsense. What, then, is it?” she pursued her questioning of herself.
A strange fear took possession of her; she felt malignant toward these black pictures, yet quailed before them.