“Mother saw you near the mirror. Why did you do that? He is sick.”
“No, he is not sick, he pulls my hair.”
“Why do you imitate him? Do you like a face like his?”
Nastya stood sullenly with downcast eyes.
“I don’t know,” she answered. And then with a queer look of candor she looked into her father’s eyes and resolutely added: “Yes, I like it.”
Father Vassily looked at her searchingly but did not say a word.
“Don’t you like it?” semi-affirmatively inquired Nastya.
“No.”
“Then why do you keep thinking about him? I would kill him if I were you.”
And it seemed to Father Vassily that even then she was making a face like the idiot: something dull and brutish flitted over her cheeks and drew her eyes together.