Just as he were a good milk-cow.
And now a woman young and bright,
With eyebrows dark and skin so white,
Comes into this blessed place,
For servant’s task she asks with grace.
“What, what—
say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”
“We’ll take her, Trophimus.
We are old and little wearies us; [[49]]
He’s almost grown within a year,