After getting down, she went out into the passage, clattering with the heels of her new boots and paying no heed to the lads. All about this woman⁠—her clothing, the offended expression of her face, and above all her earrings⁠—was so foreign to the surroundings that I could not understand how she had come to be on the top of Vasíly Oréhof’s oven. I asked a woman sitting near me who she was.

“Vasíly’s daughter-in-law; she has been a housemaid,” was the answer.

The host began offering vodka a third time, but the lads refused, rose, said grace, thanked the hosts, and went out.

In the street, the lamentations recommenced at once. The first to raise her voice was a very old woman with a bent back. She lamented in such a peculiarly piteous voice, and wailed so, that the women kept soothing the sobbing, staggering old creature, and supported her by her elbows.

“Who is she?” I inquired.