"My pet, whose name day it is.
My dear pet!" "Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with feigned severity.

"You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning to her husband.
"How do you do, my dear?
I wish you many happy returns of your name day," said the visitor.

"What a charming child," she added, addressing the mother.
This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life--with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers--was just at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman.

Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother's mantilla--not paying the least attention to her severe remark--and began to laugh.

She laughed, and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced from the folds of her frock.
"Do you see ?...