Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went towards the light, but stood still in the doorway without going in.

There was tea on the table.
In the middle of the room stood the old woman who was a relation of the landlord.

She was bareheaded and was dressed in a petticoat and a hare-skin jacket, and her stockingless feet were thrust into slippers.
In her arms she had an eighteen-months-old baby, with nothing on but its little shirt; with bare legs, flushed cheeks, and ruffled white hair.

It had only just been taken out of the cradle.

It seemed to have just been crying; there were still tears in its eyes.