a nail, he went into the room from which the woman's voice had come.
This room, low-pitched and dirty, with its walls coloured a dingy green, was dimly lighted by two dusty windows. The only furniture in it was a small iron bedstead in the corner, a table in the middle, a few chairs, and a bookcase crammed with books. Near the table was sitting a woman of thirty, bareheaded, in a black woollen gown, smoking a cigarette. When she saw Ostrodumov come in, she held out her broad red hand to him without speaking. He shook it, also without speaking, and, sinking into a chair, he pulled a half-smoked cigar out of his side pocket Mashurina gave him a light, he began smoking, and without saying a word, or even exchanging glances, they both set to puffing rings of bluish smoke into the close air, which was already saturated with tobacco fumes.
These two people had something in common, though in features they were not alike. About their slovenly figures, with coarse lips, and teeth, and noses (Ostrodumov was marked with smallpox too), there was an air of honesty and stoicism and industry.
'Have you seen Nezhdanov?' Ostrodumov inquired at last.
'Yes; he'll be here directly. He 's gone to the library with the books.'
4
