“Yes.”
“Well, then; ask her where she put my book? she will know.”
“Very well.”
The old lady grew fidgety again and began opening a drawer in the chest. Lavretsky sat still without stirring in his place.
All at once light footsteps were heard on the stairs—and Lisa came in.
Lavretsky stood up and bowed; Lisa remained at the door.
“Lisa, Lisa, darling,” began Marfa Timofyevna eagerly, “where is my book? where did you put my book?”
“What book, auntie?”
“Why, goodness me, that book! But I didn’t call you though... There, it doesn’t matter. What are you doing down-stairs? Here Fedor Ivanitch has come. How is your head?”
“It’s nothing.”