"The young lady of Pogorelka, Anna Semyonovna, has arrived."
It was indeed Anninka, but changed beyond recognition. She was no longer the beautiful, lively, buoyant girl with rosy cheeks, full gray eyes, high breast and heavy, ash-colored tresses massed low on her head, who had come to Golovliovo shortly after the death of Arina Petrovna, but a weak, wasted creature with a sunken chest, hollow cheeks, a hectic face and languid movements—a bent creature, almost hunch-backed. Even her splendid braids looked miserable, and her eyes, blazing feverishly, seemed larger than ever in her emaciated face. Her eyes alone retained something of their former beauty. Yevpraksia stared long at her as at a stranger, then finally recognized her.
"You?" she cried out, clapping her hands.
"I. Well?"
Anninka laughed quietly, as if to add, "Yes, life has played me a dirty trick."
"Is uncle well?"
"Uncle? Nothing is the matter with him. He is alive, there is no doubt about that, but we hardly ever see him."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Just so—it's all because of lonesomeness."
"Don't tell me he has stopped haranguing?"