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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds
fault with me.... But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I
wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady,
consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his
feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my... weaknesses? Do
advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite
distracted, you know."
"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown;
don't ask him too much about his health; he doesn't like that."
"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here
are the stairs.... What an awful staircase!"
"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling,"
said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: "He
ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself
so."
"Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up."

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