her heels, and began rummaging in the chest. . .
'Aunt, hi! aunt!'
'What sa-ay?'
'Have you taken my neckerchief?'
'What neckerchief?'
'Why, the yellow one.'
'The yellow one?'
'Yes, the yellow, figured one.'
'No, I've not taken it.'
Pyetushkov bent down to Vassilissa.
'Listen to me, Vassilissa; listen to what I am saying to you. It is not a matter of taps or of neckerchiefs just now; you can attend to such trifles another time.'
Vassilissa did not budge from her position; she only lifted her head.
'You just tell me, on your conscience, do you love me or not? That's what I want to know, once for all.'
'Ah, what a one you are, Ivan Afanasiitch. . . Well, then, of course.'
'If you love me, how was it you didn't come to see me yesterday? Had you no time? Well, you might have sent to find out if I were ill, as I didn't turn up. But it's little you cared. I might die, I dare say, you wouldn't grieve.'
'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, one can't be always thinking of one thing, one's got one's work to do.'
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