Lisa took the fork, drew a pin out of her tippet⁠—which thereupon, a breeze coming in at the door, blew slightly open⁠—and managing somehow to pick the stitch up with the pin, pulled two loops through and returned the fork to her uncle.

“Now give me a kiss for it,” she said, holding her rosy cheek to him and pinning up her tippet. “You shall have rum with your tea today. It’s Friday, you know.”

And she went again into the tearoom.

“Come here and look, uncle, the hussars are coming!” rang her clear voice from the tearoom.

Anna Fyódorovna came with her brother into the tearoom, the windows of which overlooked the village, to see the hussars. Very little was visible from the windows⁠—only a crowd moving in a cloud of dust.