Lubov washed the dishes; her face was concentrated and thoughtful; her hands moved lazily.

Taras was pacing the room, now and then he stopped short before the sideboard on which was the silverware, whistled, tapped his fingers against the window-panes and examined the articles with his eyes half shut.

The pendulum of the clock flashed beneath the glass door of the case like some broad, grinning face, and monotonously told the seconds.

When Foma noticed that Lubov glanced at him a few times questioningly, with expectant and hostile looks, he understood that he was in her way and that she was impatiently expecting him to leave.
"I am going to stay here over night," said he, with a smile.

"I must speak with my godfather.