She was sitting on the divan. She was pale and trembling.
They formed a contrast—she large and strong; and he small and meagre.
The sleeves of her dress fell to her shoulders, and the two bare white arms, stretching upward, seemed like the plump legs of a woman acrobat practising at home. She was evidently strong enough to hold up her arms for a long time. But her frightened face betrayed the deep terror of her ordeal.
Moshkin, enjoying her plight, uttered slowly and sternly: “Move, if you dare! Or give a single whisper!”
He approached a picture.
“How much does this cost?”
“Two hundred and twenty, without the frame,” said the young woman in a trembling voice.
He searched in his pocket and found a penknife. He cut the picture from top to bottom, and from right to left.
“Oh!” the young woman cried out.
He approached a small marble head.