“‘Dearest,’ she said to me, ‘your sufferings will soon be over. I am going to cut your poor throat, that gives you such pain.’
“I struggled, twisting my head this way and that, but she held me like a vice, and over my throat I felt two edges of cold steel.”
(Anastasia was gazing in horror.)
“Steadily they closed, tighter, tighter. Now I could feel them bite the flesh and the blood spout. Then I, who for days had been unable to utter a word, suddenly found my voice.
“‘Don’t butcher me,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Cut my accursed throat by all means, but do it neatly. Your scissors are far too blunt.’
“‘But how may I sharpen them, darling?’ she cried piteously.
“I remembered how I had seen other women do it.
“‘Try to cut on the neck of a bottle.’
“‘Will that do?’
“‘Yes, yes. Keep cutting on the smooth round glass. It’s astonishing the difference it makes.’