CHAPTER XI. MASLOVA AND HER COMPANIONS.
The political prisoners were kept in two small rooms, the doors of which opened into a part of the passage partitioned off from the rest. The first person Nekhludoff saw on entering into this part of the passage was Simonson in his rubber jacket and with a log of pine wood in his hands, crouching in front of a stove, the door of which trembled, drawn in by the heat inside.
When he saw Nekhludoff he looked up at him from under his protruding brow, and gave him his hand without rising.
“I am glad you have come; I want to speak to you,” he said, looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes with an expression of importance.
“Yes; what is it?” Nekhludoff asked.
“It will do later on; I am busy just now,” and Simonson turned again towards the stove, which he was heating according to a theory of his own, so as to lose as little heat energy as possible.
Nekhludoff was going to enter in at the first door, when Maslova, stooping and pushing a large heap of rubbish and dust towards the stove with a handleless birch broom, came out of the other. She had a white jacket on, her skirt was tucked up, and a kerchief, drawn down to her eyebrows, protected her hair from the dust. When she saw Nekhludoff, she drew herself up, flushing and animated, put down the broom, wiped her hands on her skirt, and stopped right in front of him. “You are tidying up the apartments, I see,” said Nekhludoff, shaking hands.
“Yes; my old occupation,” and she smiled. “But the dirt! You can’t imagine what it is. We have been cleaning and cleaning. Well, is the plaid dry?” she asked, turning to Simonson.
“Almost,” Simonson answered, giving her a strange look, which struck Nekhludoff.
“All right, I’ll come for it, and will bring the cloaks to dry. Our people are all in here,” she said to Nekhludoff, pointing to the first door as she went out of the second.