One Sunday in Lent her aunt came into her room early in the morning to fetch her umbrella. Vera was sitting up in bed clasping her head in her hands, thinking.

“You ought to go to church, darling,” said her aunt, “or people will think you are not a believer.”

Vera made no answer.

“I see you are dull, poor child,” said Auntie Dasha, sinking on her knees by the bedside; she adored Vera. “Tell me the truth, are you bored?”

“Dreadfully.”

“My beauty, my queen, I am your willing slave, I wish you nothing but good and happiness.⁠ ⁠… Tell me, why don’t you want to marry Nestchapov? What more do you want, my child? You must forgive me, darling; you can’t pick and choose like this, we are not princes.⁠ ⁠… Time is passing, you are not seventeen.⁠ ⁠… And I don’t understand it! He loves you, idolises you!”

“Oh, mercy!” said Vera with vexation. “How can I tell? He sits dumb and never says a word.”

“He’s shy, darling.⁠ ⁠… He’s afraid you’ll refuse him!”

And when her aunt had gone away, Vera remained standing in the middle of her room uncertain whether to dress or to go back to bed. The bed was hateful; if one looked out of the window there were the bare trees, the grey snow, the hateful jackdaws, the pigs that her grandfather would eat.⁠ ⁠…

“Yes, after all, perhaps I’d better get married!” she thought.