She darted to the cupboard and searched among the things there,
and eventually found a rough housewife, and chose out a needle and
coarse thread. It was better than nothing, so she hurriedly drew off
the blouse, then she saw her torn underthings--and another convulsive
pang went through her--but she set to work. She knew that however she
might make even the blouse look to the casual eyes of her godmother,
she could never deceive her maid. Then the thought came that
fortunately Johnson was in Petersburg, and all these things could be
left behind at Moscow. Yes, no one need ever know.
With feverish haste she cobbled up the holes, glancing nervously every
few moments to the door in case Gritzko should come in. Then she put
the garment on again--refastened her brooch and brushed and recoiled
her hair. What she saw in the small looking-glass helped to restore her
nerve. Except that her eyes were red, and she was very pale, she was
tidy and properly clothed.
She sat down by the table and tried to think. These outside things
could still look right, but nothing could restore her untarnished
pride.
How could she ever take her blameless place in the world again.
Once more it hurt Gritzko terribly to see the woebegone, humbled,
hopeless look on her face as he came in and put some food on the table.
He cut up some tempting bits and put them on her plate, while he told
her she must eat--and she obeyed mechanically.
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