“Nastasia Philipovna, I can’t; my hands won’t obey me,” said Ferdishenko, astounded and helpless with bewilderment.
“Nonsense,” cried Nastasia Philipovna, seizing the poker and raking a couple of logs together. No sooner did a tongue of flame burst out than she threw the packet of notes upon it.
Everyone gasped; some even crossed themselves.
“She’s mad—she’s mad!” was the cry.
“Oughtn’t—oughtn’t we to secure her?” asked the general of Ptitsin, in a whisper; “or shall we send for the authorities? Why, she’s mad, isn’t she—isn’t she, eh?”
“N—no, I hardly think she is actually mad,” whispered Ptitsin, who was as white as his handkerchief, and trembling like a leaf. He could not take his eyes off the smouldering packet.
“She’s mad surely, isn’t she?” the general appealed to Totski.
“I told you she wasn’t an ordinary woman,” replied the latter, who was as pale as anyone.
“Oh, but, positively, you know—a hundred thousand roubles!”
“Goodness gracious! good