would still further intensify my loathing of her. I should have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have avoided such encounters and greetings; but my little chamber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from the window, and it was always so quiet in the street below—so I endured.
And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class, when the door opened, and the bass voice of Teresa the loathsome, resounded from my threshold:
"Good health to you, Mr. Student!"
"What do you want?" I said. I saw that her face was confused and supplicatory . . . It was a very unusual sort of face for her.
"Look ye, sir! I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it me?"
I lay there silent, and thought to myself:
"Gracious! An assault upon my virtue, neither more nor less.— Courage, my boy!"
"I want to send a letter home, that's what it is," she said, her voice was beseeching, soft, timid.
"Deuce take you!" I thought; but up I jumped, sat down at my table, took a sheet of paper, and said:
"Come here, sit down, and dictate!"
She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked at me with a guilty look.
"Well, to whom do you want to write?"
"To Boleslav Kashput, at the town of Svyeptsyana, on the Warsaw Road. . ."
