For all her years, and she must have been at least as old as Marishka, she had the undeveloped mind of a child.
"You, too, are beautiful," she sighed enviously, "so white, your skin is so clear. Your hair is so soft." And then as an afterthought, "But I think it would look just as pretty if it were red."
Marishka laughed.
"What is your name, my dear?" she asked.
"I am called Yeva—they say after the first woman who was born."
"Eve—of course. It becomes you well."
"You think so. Was she very beautiful?"
"Yes—the mother of all women."
"The ugly ones?"
"Yes. We cannot all be beautiful."