'What is your name?' I asked her.
'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.
She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather
simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and
very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.
'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.
'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief,
and the tears stood in her eyes.