"Oh, uncle, why recall it? It's done. It isn't kind of you."
"Wait. That's not the point I'm making—kind or unkind—what I want to say is that even when a thing has been done, it can be undone, or done all over again. Not only we mortals, but even God alters His deeds. Now He sends rain, now He sends fair weather. So, suppose—really, the theatre isn't a good place—suppose you decide to stay."
"No, uncle, let's not speak about it, I beg of you."
"And there's another thing I want to tell you. Your fickleness is bad enough, but what is still worse is the way you slight the advice of your elders. I speak for your own good and you say, 'Let's not speak about it.' Uncle is kind and tender, and you snap at him. But do you know who gave you your uncle? Well, tell me—who?"
Anninka looked at him in perplexity.
"God gave you your uncle, that is who. God did it. If not for God, you would now be all alone in the world, you would not know how to manage things, or how to file a petition or where to file it, and what to expect from it. You would be lost in the woods. Anybody could deceive you, abuse you or even disgrace you. You see? And with the aid of God and your uncle the whole deal went through in one day. We went to town, and filed a petition and got the necessary mandates. You see, my dear, what uncle can do?"
"Yes, uncle, I am grateful to you."
"Well, if you are, don't snap at me, and do as I tell you. I mean your good, though at times it seems to you that——"
Anninka could hardly control herself. There was one way left to rid herself of uncle's sermons—to feign that in principle she accepted his proposal to remain at Golovliovo.
"All right, uncle," she said, "I'll think it over. I myself feel it is not quite proper to live alone, far from relatives. But I can't make up my mind now—I'll have to think it over."