enka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now
neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and
slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull-witted, prosperous
woman.

Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how
nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling
it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will
that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about
begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence,
and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms! Oh,
if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage,
and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that
woman!

But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing
left to do--to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another
hour in this place. It was true it was terrible to lose her place,
to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do?
Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of
her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here. She was so
disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her
illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in
the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because
this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and
began packing.

"May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come
up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice.
"May I?"

"Come in."

He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and
his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer,
and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby
hands.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket.

"I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain
in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!"

"I understand. . . . Only you are wrong to go. Why should you?
They've searched your things, but you . . . what does it matter to
you? You will be none the worse for it."

Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Nikolay Sergeitch pinched
his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and
went on in an ingratiating voice:

"I understand, of course, but you must make allowances. You know
my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn't judge her too harshly."

Mashenka did not speak.

"