In the drawing-room the samovar was boiling on the round table. Natálya Nikoláevna sat near it. Sónya wrinkled her face and smiled under her mother’s hand, which was tickling her, when father and son, with wrinkled fingertips and glossy cheeks and foreheads (the father’s bald spot was particularly glistening), with fluffy white and black hair, and with beaming countenances, entered the room.

“It has grown brighter since you have come in,” said Natálya Nikoláevna. “O Lord, how white you are!”