I did not like her gaiety.
"Is there no inn here in the neighborhood?" I asked. "I would like to rest and warm myself a bit. It is cold."
She looked at me searchingly and said in a friendly tone:
"There, farther on, you will find an inn. But if you wish, you can come to us and get a glass of tea."
Indifferently and without thinking, I followed her. I came to the room. On the wall in the comer burned a little lamp, and under the holy images sat a stout old woman, chewing something. A samovar was on the table; everything seemed cozy and warm.
The woman asked me to sit down at the table. She was young, with red cheeks and a high bosom. The old woman looked at me from her corner and sniffed. She had a large, withered face, almost, it seemed, without eyes.
I was embarrassed. What was I doing here? Who were they? I asked the young woman:
"What do you do?"
"I make lace."
True. On the wall were hung bunches of bobbins. Suddenly she laughed boldly and looked me straight in the face, and added: