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A drawing-room in POPOVA’S house.
POPOVA is in deep mourning and has her eyes fixed on a photograph. LUKA is haranguing her.
LUKA. It isn’t right, madam… . You’re just destroying yourself. The maid and the cook have gone off fruit picking, every living being is rejoicing, even the cat understands how to enjoy herself and walks about in the yard, catching midges; only you sit in this room all day, as if this was a convent, and don’t take any pleasure. Yes, really! I reckon it’s a whole year that you haven’t left the house!
POPOVA. I shall never go out… . Why should I? My life is already at an end. He is in his grave, and I have buried myself between four walls… . We are both dead.