"How silly I am. I might be drunk."
Ilya drew the coverlet over her, arranged the pillows, and was going away, when she said anxiously:
"Don't go. Stay a little. I'm so frightened alone—there's something haunts me." He sat down by the bed, looked once at her pale face, framed in its curls, and turned away. All at once he was full of shame that she should lie there, hardly alive. He remembered Jakov's entreaties, and Matiza's account of Masha's life, and he hung his head.
"And his father beats Jasha, they say. Matiza says, 'What a life!'" she said.
"Such fathers," said Lunev between his teeth, interrupting her soft, lifeless speech. "Such fathers—ought to go to penal servitude—your father and Petrusha Filimonov."
"No, my father is weak—he isn't wicked."
"If you can't look after your children you've no business to have any."
From the house opposite came the music of two voices singing together, and the words of the song drifted through the open window into Ilya's room. A strong, deep bass sang fiercely:
"My heart is disenchanted."
"There. I shall go to sleep," murmured Masha. "How nice it is—so peaceful—and the singing—they sing well."