Pronouncing the words distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage, poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.
"I will requite him," sang Vassa, plaintively, closing her eyes.
"I will inflame him, I'll dry him up," Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows.

And suddenly, changing the tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats: "Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the mown and dried-up grass." Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her eyes.

He recalled her caresses and thought: "How does she come to be such as she is?
It is even fearful to be with her." Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction.

The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other.

The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad.