“The servants say he is still the same.”

What “still the same” might mean Princess Márya did not ask, but with an unnoticed glance at little seven-year-old Nikolúshka, who was sitting in front of her looking with pleasure at the town, she bowed her head and did not raise it again till the heavy coach, rumbling, shaking and swaying, came to a stop. The carriage steps clattered as they were let down.

The carriage door was opened. On the left there was water⁠—a great river⁠—and on the right a porch. There were people at the entrance: servants, and a rosy girl with a large plait of black hair, smiling as it seemed to Princess Márya in an unpleasantly affected way. (This was Sónya.) Princess Márya ran up the steps. “This way, this way!” said the girl, with the same artificial smile, and the princess found herself in the hall facing an elderly woman of Oriental type, who came rapidly to meet her with a look of emotion. This was the countess. She embraced Princess Márya and kissed her.