Father Vassily obediently moved to the table, and the warm glow of the lamp fell upon his face, but failed to evoke a responsive warmth. Yet his face was calm and was free from fear, and this sufficed her. Bringing her lips close to his ear, she whispered:
“Priest, do you hear me, priest? Do you remember Vassya—that other Vassya?”
“No.”
“Ah!” joyously exclaimed the Popadya. “You don’t? I don’t either. Are you scared, priest? Are you? Scared?”
“No.”
“Then why do you groan when you sleep? Why do you groan?”
“Just so. I suppose I am sick.”
The Popadya laughed angrily.
“You? Sick? You—sick?” with her finger she prodded his bony, but broad and solid chest. “Why do you lie?”
Father Vassily was silent. The Popadya looked wrathfully into his cold face, with a beard that had long known no contact with the trimming shear and protruded from his sunken cheeks in transparent clumps, and she shrugged her shoulders with loathing.