it with her hand; she even set two pairs of boots under the sofa; while the few books, a bundle of papers, and the little manuscript book of verses she arranged in triumph on a three-legged corner-table, saying it was to be the writing- and work-table, while the other round table she called the dinner- and tea-table. Then taking the book of verses in both hands, she raised it to a level with her face, and looking over its edge at Nezhdanov, she said with a smile, 'We'll read all this through together some time when we're not busy, won't we?—eh?'
'Give me that book! I'll burn it!' cried Nezhdanov. 'It's worth nothing better.'
'Why did you bring it with you, if so? No, no, I'm not going to give it you to be burnt. Though they say authors always make that threat, but never do burn their things. But any way, I 'd better carry it off!'
Nezhdanov tried to protest, but Marianna ran into the next room with the manuscript book and returned without it.
She sat down close to Nezhdanov, and instantly got up again. 'You haven't been . . . in my room yet. Would you like to see it? It's as nice as yours. Come, I'll show you.'
Nezhdanov got up too and followed Marianna. Her room, as she called it, was a little smaller
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