"Not from a cellar, but from a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ... from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round.... Egg-shells, litter ... a stench. It was loathsome."
"A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.
"It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence.
"No, it's horrid." (I yawned again.) "The gravediggers must have sworn at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the grave."
"Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.
"Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can't dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery."
"Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So they bury them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times."
(I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had only heard stories of it.)
"Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?"
"But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself.
"Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption."
"A wench would have died in hospital...." (She knows all about it already: she said "wench," not "girl.")
"She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked by the discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end, though she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her. They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to her memory."
A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound silence. She did not stir.
"Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?" she added irritably.
"Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price. But after another year of this life you will be very different--you will go off."
"Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly. "You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year later--to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and caught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over an illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid of it. And so you would die."