"He cries and says, 'You'll spoil me, too!'—he means bury him. Now he has gone to sleep." Raissa suddenly drew a deep sigh: "Oh, David! David!" She drew her half-closed hand across her brow and eyes, a gesture graceful and sad, like all her movements.
"But you must take care of yourself," said David. "You can't have slept at all; and why cry? It won't help matters."
"I have no time to cry," answered Raissa.
"The rich can indulge themselves in the luxury of crying," said David.
Raissa started to go, but she turned back: "We are thinking of selling the yellow shawl: you know the one that belonged to mother's trousseau. We have been offered twelve rubles for it. I think that is too little."
"Yes, indeed, much too little."
"We wouldn't sell it," said Raissa after a short pause, "if we didn't need money for the funeral."
"Yes, of course, but you mustn't throw money away. These priests—it's a shame! But wait: I'll be there. Are you going? I'll be there soon. Good-bye, little dove!"
"Good-bye, brother, dear heart!"
"And don't cry."