"Yes, you're right," she said in a tremble. "It's all stupidity and nerves. One gets so tired." And, suddenly growing serious, she concluded: "Anyway, let's give the sick man something to eat."
In an instant she was sitting at Ivan's bed, kindly and solicitously inquiring, "Does your head ache badly?"
"Not very. Only everything is muddled up, and I'm weak," answered Ivan in embarrassment. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by too brilliant a light. Noticing that she embarrassed him by her presence and that he could not make up his mind to eat, Sasha rose and walked away. Then Ivan sat up in bed and looked at the door through which she had left.
"Be-au-tiful!" he murmured.
His eyes were bright and merry; his teeth fine and compact; his young voice was not yet steady as an adult's.
"How old are you?" the mother asked thoughtfully.
"Seventeen years."
"Where are your parents?"
"In the village. I've been here since I was ten years old. I got through school and came here. And what is your name, comrade?"
This word, when applied to her, always brought a smile to the mother's face and touched her.