The mother heard only the beginning of the woman's talk; all the rest of the words flowed together in one stream of ill-boding, hoarse sounds.
Marya's thick lips flapped hastily one against the other. Snorts issued from her fleshy nose, her eyes blinked and turned from side to side as if on the lookout for somebody in the street.
"And, mark you, I do not know anything, and I did not say anything to you, mother dear, and did not even see you to-day, you understand?"
Then she disappeared.
The mother closed the window and slowly dropped on a chair, her strength gone from her, her brain a desolate void. But the consciousness of the danger threatening her son quickly brought her to her feet again. She dressed hastily, for some reason wrapped her shawl tightly around her head, and ran to Fedya Mazin, who, she knew, was sick and not working. She found him sitting at the window reading a book, and moving his right hand to and fro with his left, his thumb spread out. On learning the news he jumped up nervously, his lips trembled, and his face paled.
"There you are! And I have an abscess on my finger!" he mumbled.
"What are we to do?" asked Vlasova, wiping the perspiration from her face with a hand that trembled nervously.
"Wait a while! Don't be afraid," answered Fedya, running his sound hand through his curly hair.
"But you are afraid yourself!"
"I?" He reddened and smiled in embarrassment. "Yes—h-m— I had a fit of cowardice, the devil take it! We must let Pavel know. I'll send my little sister to him. You go home. Never mind! They're not going to beat us."