I must add finally, that our presence in the drawing-room could hardly be much check to the two ladies who had been friends from childhood, if a quarrel had broken out between them.

We were looked upon as friends of the family, and almost as their subjects.

I made that reflection with some alarm at the time.
Stepan Trofimovitch, who had not sat down since the entrance of Varvara Petrovna, sank helplessly into an arm-chair on hearing Praskovya Ivanovna's squeal, and tried to catch my eye with a look of despair.
Shatov turned sharply in his chair, and growled something to himself.
I believe he meant to get up and go away.

Liza rose from her chair but sank back again at once without even paying befitting attention to her mother's squeal--not from "waywardness," but obviously because she was entirely absorbed by some other overwhelming impression.

She was looking absent-mindedly into the air, no longer noticing even Marya Timofyevna.
III "Ach, here!" Praskovya Ivanovna indicated an easy chair near the table and sank heavily into it with the assistance of Mavriky Nikolaevitch.
"I wouldn't have sat down in your house, my lady, if it weren't for my legs," she added in a breaking voice.
Varvara Petrovna raised her head a little, and with an expression of suffering pressed the fingers of her right hand to her right temple, evidently in acute pain _( tic douloureux)_.
"Why so, Praskovya Ivanovna; why wouldn't you sit down in my house?
I possessed your late husband's sincere friendship all his life; and you and I used to play with our dolls at school together as girls." Praskovya Ivanovna waved her hands.
"I knew that was coming! You always begin about the school when you want to reproach me--that's your way.