it Russian?' asked Fenitchka, taking the heavily bound book in both hands. 'How thick it is!'
'Yes, it's Russian.'
'All the same, I shan't understand anything.'
'Well, I didn't give it you for you to understand it. I wanted to look at you while you were reading. When you read, the end of your little nose moves so nicely.'
Fenitchka, who had set to work to spell out in a low voice the article on 'Creosote' she had chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book ... it slipped from the seat on to the ground.
'Nonsense!'
'I like it too when you laugh,' observed Bazarov.
'I like it when you talk. It's just like a little brook babbling.'
Fenitchka turned her head away. 'What a person you are to talk!' she commented, picking the flowers over with her finger. 'And how can you care to listen to me? You have talked with such clever ladies.'
'Ah, Fedosya Nikolaevna! believe me; all the clever ladies in the world are not worth your little elbow.'
'Come, there's another invention!' murmured Fenitchka, clasping her hands.
Bazarov picked the book up from the ground.
