"Come, sit down, sit down,"—went on the old woman.—"Thou hast come straight up-stairs. Well, yes, of course. What? thou art come to look at me? Thanks."
The old woman was silent for a while; Lavrétzky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.
"Liza ... yes, Liza was here just now,"—went on Márfa Timoféevna, tying and untying the cords of her reticule. "She is not quite well. Schúrotchka, where art thou? Come hither, my mother, why canst thou not sit still? And I have a headache. It must be from that—from the singing and from the music."
"From what singing, aunty?"
"Why, of course, they keep singing—what do you call it?—duets. And always in Italian: tchi-tchi, and tcha-tcha, regular magpies. They begin to drag the notes out, and it's just like tugging at your soul. Pánshin and that wife of yours. And all that has come about so quickly; already they are on the footing of relatives, they do not stand on ceremony. However, I will say this much: even a dog seeks a refuge; no harm will come to her, so long as people don't turn her out."
"Nevertheless, I must confess that I did not expect this,"—replied Lavrétzky:—"it must have required great boldness."
"No, my dear soul, that is not boldness; it is calculation. The Lord be with her—I want nothing to do with her! They tell me that thou art sending her to Lavríki,—is it true?"
"Yes, I am placing that estate at the disposal of Varvára Pávlovna."
"Has she asked for money?"
"Not yet."