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with the young girl’s name. It was of no avail that she
denied all knowledge of the tract contained in the
manuscript.
She was very peculiar: homely, with beautiful eyes;
difficult to become acquainted with, for a little thing
would silence her. In the presence of a dashing woman
of the world or a beautiful coquette, she opened not her
mouth. She contended that it was impossible to say a
word in the presence of that kind of woman. She had
the whole severity of youth; forbearance was a virtue
she knew only by name. And she had youth’s naïve
faith in the efficacy of every kind of propaganda. Her
mother, a lady of thirty-five years of age, was
high-spirited and passionate, with all the luxurious vital powers
of the Russian blood. The whole emotional life of the
daughter had been absorbed by the intellectual; she
managed her mother as if the latter had been her own
grown-up child.
Still more rare than this type, there is among these
women the patient, light-hearted, on whom no
opposition makes any impression. A letter from a young
married woman, who had been exiled to a town in
Siberia, but without being confined in prison, was
somewhat to this effect: “Dear Friends,—I can imagine that
you are somewhat uneasy about me. But never in my
life have I been happier. It is quite pleasant to be
separated for a while from my beloved husband, who was
beginning to tire me. But that is truly one of the most
unimportant things. I have been received here not as
a criminal, but as a queen. The whole town is made up
of exiles, descendants of exiles, friends of exiles. They
actually vie with each other in showing me kindness—nay,
homage. Every other evening, I am at a ball, and
never off the floor. This place is a true ball-paradise,” etc.
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