NIKÍTA. Mítritch, you get off to sleep and I'll put this straight.
MÍTRITCH. All right, you throw it to the sheep. Well, have you seen 'em all off?
NIKÍTA. Yes, they're off! But things are not right! I don't know what to do!
MÍTRITCH. It's a fine mess. But there's the Foundlings'[6] for that sort of thing. Whoever likes may drop one there; they'll take 'em all. Give 'em as many as you like, they ask no questions, and even pay—if the mother goes in as a wet-nurse. It's easy enough nowadays.
NIKÍTA. But mind, Mítritch, don't go blabbing.
MÍTRITCH. It's no concern of mine. Cover the tracks as you think best. Dear me, how you smell of liquor! I'll go in. Oh Lord! [Exit, yawning].
Nikíta is long silent. Sits down on a sledge.
NIKÍTA. Here's a go!
Enter Anísya.
ANÍSYA. Where are you?