She played it through twice; then broke off abruptly, rising from her
seat and shaking with gusts of malicious laughter. Still laughing
loudly and evilly, she began to sip brandy out of a high narrow
glass.
Her eyes were still beautiful, with the beauty of lakes in autumn
when the trees are shedding their leaves. She seated herself on the
sofa, and lay back among its cushions, her hands clasped behind her
head, in an attitude of utter abandonment. Her legs in their open-
work stockings were plainly visible under her black silk skirt, and
she crossed them, leisurely placing her feet, encased in their patent
leather shoes, upon a low footstool.
She drank a great deal of brandy in slow sips, and as she pressed her
beautiful lips to the glass she vilified everybody and everything--
Ivanov, the Revolution, Moscow, the Crimea, Marin-Brod, Mintz, and
herself.
Then she became silent, her eyes grew dull, she began to speak
quietly and sadly, with a foolish helpless smile.
Mintz was drinking and pacing up and down the room, speaking volubly
with noisy derision. The brandy flowed through his veins, warming his
sluggish blood; his thoughts grew vivid and spiteful, engendering
sarcastic, malicious remarks. Whenever he took a drink, he removed
his pince-nez for a moment, and his eyes became evil, vacant and
bemused.
Lydia Constantinovna sat in the corner of the sofa, covered her
shoulders with a plaid shawl, and crossed her legs in the Turkish
fashion.
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