Ignat also listened, bending his shaggy head sideways to the earth
and the sky. He caught some desired note and agreed:
"Yes, it must be so. I can hear the beat of their wings. I am truly
thankful. At dawn to-morrow we must get out the drosky. We will go to
the Ratchinsky wood and have a look. We can get through all right by
the upper road."
From the right of the steps, his daughter Aganka skipped gaily on to
the terrace and began beating the dust out of a sheep-skin
coat with thin brown sticks. It was cold and she commenced to dance
for warmth, singing in a shrill voice:
"The nightingale sings
In the branches above--
The nightingale brings
No rest to his love!"
Ignat gave her an indulgent look; nevertheless he said sternly:
"Come, come! That is sin ... it is Lent and you singing!"
Aganka merely laughed.
"There is no sin now!" she retorted, turning her back to the steps
and propping up her right leg as she vigorously beat the sheepskin
coat.
Ignat playfully threatened her--then smiled and said to Ivanov: "A
fine girl, isn't she?... She is not yet sixteen and is already a
flirt! Its no use talking to her. She won't remain in the house at
night, but must go slipping off somewhere."
Aganka turned round sharply, tossing her head. "Well, I am not a dead
creature!"
"You are not, my girl; indeed you are not--only hold your tongue!"
Ivanov glanced at her.
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