Latin names to you?' asked Bazarov.

'Order is needed in everything,' she answered.

'What an exquisite woman Anna Sergyevna is!' cried Arkady, when he was
alone with his friend in the room assigned to them.

'Yes,' answered Bazarov, 'a female with brains. Yes, and she's seen
life too.'

'In what sense do you mean that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?'

'In a good sense, a good sense, my dear friend, Arkady Nikolaevitch!
I'm convinced she manages her estate capitally too. But what's splendid
is not her, but her sister.'

'What, that little dark thing?'

'Yes, that little dark thing. She now is fresh and untouched, and shy
and silent, and anything you like. She's worth educating and
developing. You might make something fine out of her; but the
other's--a stale loaf.'

Arkady made no reply to Bazarov, and each of them got into bed with
rather singular thoughts in his head.

Anna Sergyevna, too, thought of her guests that evening. She liked
Bazarov for the absence of gallantry in him, and even for his sharply
defined views. She found in him something new, which she had not
chanced to meet before, and she was curious.

Anna Sergyevna was a rather strange creature. Having no prejudices of
any kind, having no strong convictions even, she never gave way or went
out of her way for anything. She had seen many things very clearly; she
had been interested in many things, but nothing had completely
satisfied her; indeed, she hardly desired complete satisfaction. Her
intellect was at the same time inquiring and indifferent; her doubts
were never soothed to forgetfulness, and they never grew strong enough
to distract her. Had she not been rich and independent, she would
perhaps have thrown herself into the struggle, and have known passion.
But life was easy for her, though she was bored at times, and she went
on passing day after day with deliberation, never in a hurry, placid,
and only rarely disturbed. Dreams sometimes danced in rainbow colours
before her eyes even, but she breathed more freely when they died away,
and did not regret them. Her imagination indeed overstepped the limits
of what is reckoned permissible by conventional morality; but even then
her blood flowed as quietly as ever in her fascinatingly graceful,
tranquil body. Sometimes coming out of her fragrant bath all warm and
enervated, she would fall to musing on the nothingness of life, the
sorrow, the labour, the malice of it.... Her soul would be filled with
sud