XI.
"What, died?" Nekhlyúdov asked, incredulously.
"She died from exertion, benefactor, as God is holy. We took her two years ago from Babúrin," she continued, suddenly changing her angry expression to one of tearfulness and sadness. "She was a young, healthy, obedient woman, father. She had lived, as a maiden, in plenty, at her father's home, and had experienced no want; but when she came to us, and had to do the work,—in the manor and at home, and everywhere— She and I, that was all there was. To me it did not matter much. I am used to it, but she was pregnant, and began to suffer; and she worked all the while beyond her strength, until she, my dear girl, overworked herself. Last year, during St. Peter's Fast, she, to her misfortune, bore a boy, and there was no bread; we barely managed to pick up something, father; the hard work was on hand, and her breasts dried up. It was her first-born, there was no cow, and we are peasant people, and it is not for us to bring up children on the bottle; and, of course, she was a foolish woman, and worried her life away. And when her baby died, she cried and cried from sorrow, and sobbed and sobbed, my darling, and there was want, and work, ever worse and worse; she wore herself out all summer, and died, my darling, on the day of St. Mary's Intercession. It is he who has undone her, beast!" She again turned to her son with the anger of despair. "I wanted to ask you, your Grace," she continued after a short silence, lowering her head, and bowing.
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