"To you, too."
She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in
the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who
lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:
"You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do
with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I
please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could
tell it! Only,--who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak
at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,--they're
like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you
would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals--you
cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire--just
as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent."
Raising her hands she abruptly loosened her hair, and when it
fell over her shoulders in heavy, black locks--the woman shook
her head haughtily and said, with contempt:
"Never mind that I am leading a loose life! It often happens,
that the man who lives in filth is purer than he who goes about
in silks.
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