"Why, my book; good heavens! However, I did not call thee.... Well, it makes no difference. What are you doing there—down-stairs? See here, Feódor Ivánitch has come.—How is thy head?"
"It is all right."
"Thou art always saying: 'It is all right.' What's going on with you down-stairs,—music again?"
"No—they are playing cards."
"Yes, of course, she is up to everything. Schúrotchka, I perceive that thou wishest to have a run in the garden. Go along."
"Why, no, Márfa Timoféevna...."
"Don't argue, if you please. Go! Nastásya Kárpovna has gone into the garden alone: stay with her. Respect the old woman."—Schúrotchka left the room.—"Why, where is my cap? Really, now, where has it got to?"
"Pray let me look for it,"—said Liza.
"Sit down, sit down; my own legs haven't given out yet. I must have left it yonder, in my bedroom."
And, casting a sidelong glance at Lavrétzky, Márfa Timoféevna left the room. She was on the point of leaving the door open, but suddenly turned round toward it, and shut it.