XLII
They lived in the capital that winter. Boris was studying his final term in the gymnasia. For Christmas he went to another city: to relatives, he said.
Natasha was suspicious. But he did not tell her the truth.
“Really, nothing,” he answered to all her questions. “No one is sending me. I am going of my own accord. To see Aunt Liuba.”
And Natasha did not insist.
For several days she did not get any letters from him. But she did not worry. Boris disliked writing letters. They thought he was enjoying himself.
It was an evening in early January. Her mother and grandmother had gone out visiting. Natasha, pleading a headache, remained at home.
“I’ll lie down on the sofa. It will pass away.”
The truth was she thought the home of her affected, worldly relatives a dull place, and she had no desire to go there.
The maid had leave to go out. Natasha remained in the house alone. She lay down in her room on the sofa with an interesting new book.