“It was your humane manner,” she explained plaintively. “I have been starving for, I won’t say kindness, but just for a little civility, for I don’t know how long. And now you are angry....”
“But no, on the contrary,” he protested. “I am very glad you trust me. It’s possible that later on I may...”
“Yes, if you were to get ill,” she interrupted eagerly, “or meet some bitter trouble, you would find I am not a useless fool. You have only to let me know. I will come to you. I will indeed. And I will stick to you. Misery and I are old acquaintances—but this life here is worse than starving.”
She paused anxiously, then in a voice for the first time sounding really timid, she added—
“Or if you were engaged in some dangerous work. Sometimes a humble companion—I would not want to know anything. I would follow you with joy. I could carry out orders. I have the courage.”
Razumov looked attentively at the scared round eyes, at the withered, sallow, round cheeks. They were quivering about the corners of the mouth.
“She wants to escape from here,” he thought.
“Suppose I were to tell you that I am engaged in dangerous work?” he uttered slowly.
She pressed the cat to her threadbare bosom with a breathless exclamation. “Ah!” Then not much above a whisper: “Under Peter Ivanovitch?”
“No, not under Peter Ivanovitch.”