"Into what soul?
He, he!" She began to pace the room, gathering together the clothes that were scattered everywhere.

Foma watched her and was displeased because she did not get angry at him for his words about her soul.

Her face looked calm and indifferent, as usual, but he wished to see her angry or offended; he wished for something human from the woman.
"The soul!" he exclaimed, persisting in his aim.

"Can one who has a soul live as you live?
A soul has fire burning in it, there is a sense of shame in it." By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed her eyes upon his face.
"What are you staring at ?" asked Foma.
"Why do you speak that way ?" said she, without lifting her eyes from him.
"Because I must." "Look out--must you really ?" There was something threatening in her question.

Foma felt intimidated and said, this time without provocation in his voice: "How could I help speaking ?" "Oh, you!" sighed Sasha and resumed dressing herself "And what about me ?" "Merely so.