"It was a jest of your brother's; no lady has pleased me, at least no one now pleases me."
"What is it that pleases you in women?" asked Assja, tossing back her head in childish curiosity.
"What a singular question!" I exclaimed.
Assja was a little disturbed.
"I should not have asked the question—not so? Forgive me. I am used to chatter about everything that goes through my head. That is why I am afraid to talk."
"Only talk, for heaven's sake! Don't be afraid," I broke in. "I am so glad that at last you cease to be shy." Assja lowered her eyes and laughed; a still, gentle laughter that I did not recognize as hers.
"Well, tell me something then," she said, while she smoothed her dress and tucked it about her feet as if disposing herself to sit for a long while—"tell me something, or read something aloud, as that time when you read to us out of 'Onegin.'"
She grew suddenly thoughtful.
Where now in green boughs' shadow The cross rests on my mother's grave—
she said to herself in a low voice.