very much.
“Very good?” said Natásha reproachfully, noticing her brother’s tone. “Not ‘very good’—it’s simply delicious!”
Just as “Uncle’s” pickled mushrooms, honey, and cherry brandy had seemed to her the best in the world, so also that song, at that moment, seemed to her the acme of musical delight.
“More, please, more!” cried Natásha at the door as soon as the balaláyka ceased.
Mítka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming the balaláyka to the air of “My Lady,” with trills and variations.
“Uncle” sat listening, slightly smiling, with his head on one side. The air was repeated a hundred times. The balaláyka was retuned several times and the same notes were thrummed again, but the listeners did not grow weary of it and wished to hear it again and again.
Anísya Fëdorovna came in and leaned her portly person against the doorpost.