“Yes, it does.”
“Recite it.”
Márya Pávlovna was seized with shyness....
“Recite it, recite it,”—repeated Véretyeff.
Márya Pávlovna began to recite; Véretyeff stood in front of her, with his arms folded on his breast, and bent himself to listen. At the first line Márya Pávlovna raised her eyes heavenward; she did not wish to encounter Véretyeff’s gaze. She recited in her even, soft voice, which reminded one of the sound of a violoncello; but when she reached the lines:
“And the poor slave expired at the feet
Of his invincible sovereign....”
her voice began to quiver, her impassive, haughty brows rose ingenuously, like those of a little girl, and her eyes, with involuntary devotion, fixed themselves on Véretyeff....
He suddenly threw himself at her feet and embraced her knees.
“I am thy slave!”—he cried.—“I am at thy feet, thou art my sovereign, my goddess, my ox-eyed Hera, my Medea....”
Márya Pávlovna attempted to repulse him, but her hands sank helplessly in his thick curls, and, with a smile of confusion, she dropped her head on her breast....