Nothing in his son's
recital had touched him particularly, and he felt irritated against his
wife and Iakov. He had sent them a great deal of money during the last
five years, and yet they had not been able to manage. If Malva had not
been present he would have told his son what he thought about it. Iakov
was smart enough to leave the village on his own responsibility and
without the father's permission, but he had not been able to get a
living out of the soil. Vassili sighed as he stirred the soup, and as
he watched the blue flames he thought of his son and Malva.
Henceforward, he thought, his life would be less agreeable, less free.
Iakov had surely guessed what Malva was.
Meanwhile Malva, in the cabin, was trying to arouse the rustic with her
bold eyes.
"Perhaps you left a girl in the village?" she asked suddenly.
"Perhaps," he responded surlily.
Inwardly he was abusing Malva.
"Is she pretty?" she asked with indifference.
Iakov made no reply.
"Why don't you answer? Is she better looking than I, or no?"
He looked at her in spite of himself. Her cheeks were sunburnt and
plump, her lips red and tempting and now, parted in a malicious smile,
showing the white even teeth, they seemed to tremble.
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