“Speak Russian!” commanded the prison-master.
As she leaned against the white wall near her barred window, she said:
“That is what I mind most, monsieur—that soldier who is always looking in at me.”
Her head rested against the cold plaster, and a half shadow fell across her face. Her delicate mouth was drawn tight, but her eyes shot bright glances toward us. She was so pathetically glad at our coming—probably the first bit of cheerful change since her incarceration. In the room was a dingy bed and a shaky table, which with the one chair comprised all of the furniture. As she talked a beautiful expression played over her regular features, and I thought of the word applied to her by the police-master—“Exalté.”
“To see you, mademoiselle,” I ventured again in
Marie Spiradonova in prison—the girl who shot the governor of Tamboff
French, “one would think that you looked upon your situation here as if it were the hour of your greatest happiness—”