'I don't remember! I expect I was pretty absurd too. It certainly is
dangerous to drink,' I added with significant emphasis; 'one begins
chattering at once, and one's apt to say what no one ought to know.
One's sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it's too late.'
'Why, did you let out some secret?' asked Sophia.
'I am not referring to myself.'
Sophia turned away, and began walking up and down the room again. I
stared at her, raging inwardly. 'Upon my word,' I thought, 'she is a
child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand! She's made of stone,
simply. But wait a bit....'
'Sophia Nikolaevna ...' I said aloud.
Sophia stopped.
'What is it?'
'Won't you play me something on the piano? By the way, I've something I
want to say to you,' I added, dropping my voice.
Sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room; I followed
her. She came to a standstill at the piano.
'What am I to play you?' she inquired.
'What you like ... one of Chopin's nocturnes.'
Sophia began the nocturne. She played rather badly, but with feeling.
Her sister played nothing but polkas and waltzes, and even that very
seldom. She would go sometimes with her indolent step to the piano, sit
down, let her coat slip from her shoulders down to her elbows (I never
saw her without a coat), begin playing a polka very loud, and without
finishing it, begin another, then she would suddenly heave a sigh, get
up, and go back again to the window. A queer creature was that Varvara!