The mother lit a lamp and sat down at a table to knit stockings.

But soon she rose again, walked irresolutely into the kitchen, bolted the outer door, and straining her eyebrows walked back into the living room.

She pulled down the window curtains, and taking a book from the shelf, sat down at the table again, looked around, bent down over the book, and began to move her lips.

When she heard a noise on the street, she started, clapped the book shut with the palm of her hand, and listened intently.

And again, now closing, now opening her eyes, she whispered: "E--z--a." With even precision and stern regularity the dull tick of the pendulum marked the dying seconds.
A knock at the door was heard; the mother jumped quickly to her feet, thrust the book on the shelf, and walking up to the door asked anxiously: "Who's there ?".