"I beg not to go to Ustrytsi."
"Ah, what a rogue, what a rogue, that dear Hania!" thought I, in my soul.
My father, who was a little deaf, did not hear at once. Kissing her on the forehead, he asked,—
"What dost thou wish, little woman?"
"I have one prayer."
"What is it?"
"That I may not go to Ustrytsi."
"But why, art thou ill?"
"If she says that she is ill," thought I, "all is lost, the more since my father is in good humor."
But Hania never lied, even innocently; therefore, instead of masking the lack of wish as a headache, she answered,—