'That's a medical book; why do you throw it away?'
'Medical?' repeated Fenitchka, and she turned to him again. 'Do you know, ever since you gave me those drops—do you remember?—Mitya has slept so well! I really can't think how to thank you; you are so good, really.'
'But you have to pay doctors,' observed Bazarov with a smile. 'Doctors, you know yourself, are grasping people.'
Fenitchka raised her eyes, which seemed still darker from the whitish reflection cast on the upper part of her face, and looked at Bazarov. She did not know whether he was joking or not.
'If you please, we shall be delighted.... I must ask Nikolai Petrovitch ...'
'Why, do you think I want money?' Bazarov interposed. 'No; I don't want money from you.'
'What then?' asked Fenitchka.
'What?' repeated Bazarov. 'Guess!'
'A likely person I am to guess!'
'Well, I will tell you; I want ... one of those roses.'
Fenitchka laughed again, and even clapped her hands, so amusing Bazarov's request seemed to her. She laughed, and at the same time felt
