everything. And who's noticing? One's stretching his neck off the pillow, like a sick duck, and hears nothing; and the other's deep in philosophy. Don't you be afraid!' Musa's voice rose a little, and her cheeks gradually flushed a sort of malignant, dusky red; and this suited her marvellously, and never had she been so pretty. As she cleared the table, and set the cups and saucers in their places, she moved swiftly about the room; there was something challenging about her light, free and easy movement. 'You may criticise me as you like,' she seemed to say; 'but I 'm going my own way, and I 'm not afraid of you.'
I cannot disguise the fact that I found Musa bewitching just that evening. 'Yes,' I mused; 'she's a little spitfire—she's a new type. . . She's—exquisite. Those hands know how to deal a blow, I dare say. . . What of it! No matter!'
'Paramon Semyonitch,' she cried suddenly, 'isn't a republic an empire in which every one does as he chooses?'
'A republic is not an empire,' answered Baburin, raising his head, and contracting his brows; 'it is a . . . form of society in which everything rests on law and justice.'
'Then,' Musa pursued, 'in a republic no one can oppress any one else?'
'No.'
'And every one is free to dispose of himself?'
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