"Why don't you call her that to her face?"
"Do you think that I am afraid to?" But a second later he said, with a frown: "No, I can't say it to her face. She may really be a witch."
Treating every one with the same scornful lack of consideration, she showed no indulgence to me, but would drag me out of bed at six o'clock every morning, crying:
"Are you going to sleep forever? Bring the wood in! Get the samovar ready! Clean the doorplate!"
Sascha would wake up and complain:
"What are you bawling like that for? I will tell the master. You don't give any one a chance to, sleep."
Moving quickly about the kitchen with her lean, withered body, she would flash her blazing, sleepless eyes upon him.
"Oh, it's you, God's mistake? If you were my son, I would give you something!"
Sascha would abuse her, calling her "accursed one," and when we were going to the shop he said to me: "We shall have to do something to get her sent away. We 'll put salt in everything when she's not looking. If everything is cooked with too much salt, they will get rid of her. Or paraffin would do. What are you gaping about?"
"Why don't you do it yourself?"