‘I have never happened to,’ she answered; ‘I haven’t had time!’
‘Not time! You surprise me! I should have thought,’ I went on, addressing Priemkov, ‘you would have interested your wife in poetry.’
‘I should have been delighted——’ Priemkov was beginning, but Vera Nikolaevna interrupted him—
‘Don’t pretend; you’ve no great love for poetry yourself.’
‘Poetry; well, no,’ he began; ‘I’m not very fond of it; but novels, now.…’
‘But what do you do, how do you spend your evenings?’ I queried; ‘do you play cards?’
‘We sometimes play,’ she answered; ‘but there’s always plenty to do. We read, too; there are good books to read besides poetry.’
‘Why are you so set against poetry?’
‘I’m not set against it; I have been used to not reading these invented works from a child. That was my mother’s wish, and the longer I live the more I am convinced that everything my mother did, everything she said, was right, sacredly right.’