"I am glad you came; I want to see you!" he said, with a significant
glance, looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes.

"What is it?" asked Nekhludoff.

"I will tell you later; I am busy now."

And Simonson again occupied himself with making the fire, which he did
according to his special theory of the greatest conservation of heat
energy.

Nekhludoff was about to enter the first door when Maslova, broom in
hand, and sweeping a heap of dirt and dust toward the oven, emerged
from the second door. She wore a white waist and white stockings and
her skirt was tucked up under the waist. A white 'kerchief covered her
head to her very eyebrows. Seeing Nekhludoff, she unbent herself and,
all red and animated, put aside the broom, and wiping her hands on her
skirt, she stood still.

"You are putting things in order?" asked Nekhludoff, extending his
hand.

"Yes, my old occupation," she answered and smiled. "There is such dirt
here; there is no end to our cleaning."

"Well, is the plaid dry?" she turned to Simonson.

"Almost," said Simonson, glancing at her in a manner which struck
Nekhludoff as very peculiar.

"Then I will fetch the furs to dry. All our people are there," she
said to Nekhludoff, going to the further room and pointing to the
nearest door.

Nekhludoff opened the door and walked into a small cell, dimly lighted
by a little metallic lamp standing on a low bunk. The cell was cold
and there was an odor of dust, dampness and tobacco. The tin lamp
threw a bright light on those around it, but the bunks were in the
shade and vacillating shadows moved along the walls. In the small
room were all the prisoners, except two men who had gone for boiling
water and provisions. There was an old acquaintance of Nekhludoff, the
yellow-faced and thin Vera Efremovna, with her large, frightened eyes
and a big vein on her forehead. She was sitting nervously rolling
cigarettes from a heap of tobacco lying on a newspaper in front of
her.

In the far corner there was also Maria Pablovna.

"How opportune your coming! How you seen Katia?" she asked Nekhludoff.

There was also Anatolie Kryltzoff. Pale and wasted, his legs crossed
under him, bending forward and shivering, he sat in the far corner,
his hands hidden in the sleeves of his fur jacket, and with feverish
eyes looked at Nekhludoff. Nekhludoff was about to approach him, but
to the right of the entrance, sorting something in a bag and talking
to the pretty and smili