exhib

[Lindblad Tinoco <lactic at majesteit dot nl>]

to the corset department and conceals her from the public eye behind a
high pyramid of boxes. "What sort of corset may I show you?" he asks
aloud, whispering immediately: "Wipe your eyes!" "I want . . . I want .
. . size forty-eight centimetres. Only she wanted one, lined . . . with
real whalebone . . . I must talk to you, Nikolay Timofeitch. Come
to-day!" "Talk? What about? There's nothing to talk about." "You are the
only person who . . . cares about me, and I've no one to talk to but
you." "These are not reed or steel, but real whalebone. . . . What is
there for us to talk about? It's no use talking. . . . You are going for
a walk with him to-day, I suppose?" "Yes; I . . . I am." "Then what's
the use of talking? Talk won't help. . . . You are in love, aren't you?"
"Yes . . ." Polinka whispers hesitatingly, and big tears gush from her
eyes. "What is there to say?" mutters Nikolay Timofeitch, shrugging his
shoulders nervously and turning pale. "There's no need of talk. . . .
Wipe your eyes, that's all. I . . . I ask for nothing." At that moment a
tall, lanky shopman comes up to the pyramid of boxes, and says to h