"Quick—the samovar!"
When I brought it in I saw a woman sitting on the divan, in a wide pink dress, blonde disheveled curls hanging over her shoulders, and a little pink face, like a doll's, with light-blue eyes. She seemed to me modest and sad.
I placed the dishes on the table, and Anthony hurried me all the while.
"Do it quicker—hurry."
"He is aflame," I said to myself.
I liked his love affairs, for it was pleasant to see how skilful Anthony was even in love—a thing which is not very difficult.
As for myself, love left me cold at this time, and the looseness of the monks kept me away from it. But what kind of a monk was Father Anthony?
The woman was pretty in her way, a delicate little thing, like a new toy.
In the morning I went into the room to set it to rights. But he was not there, having gone to the Abbot. She sat on the divan, her feet under her, uncombed and half dressed. She asked me what I was called. I told her. Then she asked me if I had been in the monastery a long time, and I answered that question also.
"Don't you get bored here?"