When she withdrew her hand the little hat
perched on the top of her head remained slightly tilted, with a queer
inquisitive effect, contrasting strongly with the reminiscent murmur
that escaped her.
"We were not in our first youth even then. But a man is a child always."
Razumov thought suddenly, "They have been living together." Then aloud--
"Why didn't you follow him to America?" he asked point-blank.
She looked up at him with a perturbed air.
"Don't you remember what was going on fifteen years ago? It was a time
of activity. The Revolution has its history by this time. You are in
it and yet you don't seem to know it. Yakovlitch went away then on a
mission; I went back to Russia. It had to be so. Afterwards there was
nothing for him to come back to."
"Ah! indeed," muttered Razumov, with affected surprise. "Nothing!"
"What are you trying to insinuate" she exclaimed quickly. "Well, and
what then if he did get discouraged a little...."
"He looks like a Yankee, with that goatee hanging from his chin. A
regular Uncle Sam," growled Razumov. "Well, and you? You who went to
Russia? You did not get discouraged."
"Never mind. Yakovlitch is a man who cannot be doubted. He, at any rate,
is the right sort."
Her black, penetrating gaze remained fixed upon Razumov while she spoke,
and for a moment afterwards.
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