(At these words, the narrator tossed off a glass of water at one draught.--"Nonsense! nonsense!"--I thought, as I looked at his round chin:--"on you, my dear friend, no one in the world produces 'a very strong impression.'") ... Piótr Feódorovitch went on: Gentlemen, I believe in blood, in race. There was more blood in Olga Ivánovna, than, for example, in her nominal sister--Natálya. How did that "blood" show itself?--you ask me.--Why, in everything; in the outline of her hands and of her lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her walk, in the way she dressed her hair,--in the folds of her gown, in short. In all these trifles there was a certain hidden something, although I must admit that that .... how shall I express it?.... that distinction which had fallen to the lot of Olga Ivánovna would not have attracted the attention of Vasíly if he had met her in Petersburg. But in the country, in the wilds, she not only excited his attention,--but even, altogether, was the sole cause of the change of which I have just spoken. Judge for yourselves: Vasíly Ivánovitch was fond of enjoying life; he could not help being bored in the country; his brothers were kind-hearted fellows, but extremely limited in mind; he had nothing in common with them. His sister Natálya and her husband had had four children in the space of three years; between her and Vasíly lay a whole abyss... Anna Pávlovna went to church, prayed, fasted, and prepared herself for death. There remained only Olga, a rosy, timid, charming young girl... At first Vasíly did not notice her ... and who would turn his attention on an adopted child, an orphan, a foundling?.... One day, at the very beginning of spring, he was walking through the garden, and with his cane switching off the heads of the chicory, those stupid yellow flowers which make their appearance in such abundance first of all, in the meadows as yet hardly green.--He was strolling in the garden in front of the house, raised his head--and beheld Olga Ivánovna.--She was sitting with her side to the window, and gazing pensively at a striped kitten, which, purring and blinking, had cuddled down on her lap, and with great satisfaction was presenting its little nose to the spring sunshine, already fairly brilliant. Olga Ivánovna wore a white morning-gown with short sleeves; her bare, faintly-rosy, as yet not fully-developed shoulders and arms breathed forth freshness and health; a small cap discreetly confined her thick, soft, silky locks; her face was slightly flushed; she had not been long awake. Her slender, supple neck was bent forward so charmingly; her unconfined form reposed so engagingly and modestly that Vasíly Ivánovitch (a great connoisseur!) involuntarily halted and took a look. It suddenly came into his head that Olga Ivánovna ought not to be left in her pristine ignorance, that in time she might turn out to be a very charming and very amiable woman.