Olga Stepanovna quickly arose and entreated in an appealing, timorous voice:
“Only don’t revile her, Father! You know the sort she is.”
Vera’s chamber was in the attic, and the narrow, wooden stair bent and creaked under the heavy tread of Father Ignatius. Tall and ponderous, he bent his head to avoid striking the floor of the upper story, and frowned disdainfully when the white jacket of his wife brushed his face. Well he knew that nothing would come of their talk with Vera.
“Why do you come?” asked Vera, raising a bared arm to her eyes. The other arm lay on top of a white summer blanket, hardly distinguishable from the fabric, so white, translucent, and cold was its aspect.
“Verochka——” began her mother, but, sobbing, she grew silent.
“Vera,” said her father, making an effort to soften his dry and hard voice—“Vera, tell us, what troubles you?”
Vera was silent.
“Vera, do not your mother and I deserve your confidence? Do we not love you? And is there some one nearer to you than we? Tell us about your sorrow, and, take the word of an experienced old man, you’ll feel better for it. And we too. Look at your aged mother, how much she suffers!”
“Verochka!”