her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt, was growing cold on the bare floor.
As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied nearby. The shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the adjutant was heard. Natásha sat up.
“Sónya, are you asleep? Mamma?” she whispered.
No one replied.
Natásha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim, supple, bare feet. The boards of the floor creaked.
Stepping cautiously from one foot to the other she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and grasped the cold door handle.
It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against all the walls of the room: it was her