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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be."
"Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr
Petrovitch breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted
out, incautiously.
"He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and
contemptuously.
"We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly
broke in. "He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he
gets out and has a breath of air... it is fearfully close in his
room.... But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very
streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a
town!... stay... this side... they will crush you--carrying
something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare... how
they push!... I am very much afraid of that young woman, too."
"What young woman, mother?"
"Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now."
"Why?"

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