“I was neither malicious nor proud...It’s only now. I wasn’t ten yet when my own mother sold me; and since that time I’ve been travelling from hand to hand... If only some one had seen a human being in me! No! ... I am vermin, refuse, worse than a beggar, worse than a thief, worse than a murderer! ... Even a hangman...we have even such coming to the establishment—and even he would have treated me loftily, with loathing: I am nothing; I am a public wench! Do you understand, Sergei Ivanovich, what a horrible word this is? Pub-lic! ... This means nobody’s: not papa’s, not mamma’s, not Russian, not Riyazan, but simply—public! And not once did it enter anybody’s head to walk up to me and think: why, now, this is a human being too; she has a heart and a brain; she thinks of something, feels something; for she’s not made out of wood, and isn’t stuffed with straw, small hay, or excelsior! And yet, only I feel this. I, perhaps, am the only one out of all of them who feels the horror of her position; this black, stinking, filthy pit. But then, all the girls with whom I have met, and with whom I am living right now—understand, Platonov, understand me!—why, they don’t realize anything... Talking, walking pieces of meat! And this is even worse than my malice! ...” “You are right!” said Platonov quietly. “And this is one of those questions where you’ll always run up against a wall. No one will help you...” “No one, no one! ...” passionately exclaimed Jennka. “Do you remember—this was while you were there: a student carried away our Liubka...” “Why, certainly, I remember well! ... Well, and what then?” “And this is what, that yesterday she came back tattered, wet...Crying...Left her, the skunk! ... Played a while at kindliness, and then away with her! ‘You,’ he says, ‘are a sister.’ ‘I,’ he says, ‘will save you, make a human being of you...’” “Is that possible?” “Just so! ... One man I did see, kindly, indulgent, without the designs of a he-dog—that’s you. But then, you’re altogether different. You’re somehow queer. You’re always wandering somewhere, seeking something...You forgive me, Sergei Ivanovich, you’re some sort of a little innocent! ... And that’s just why I’ve come to you, to you alone! ...” “Speak on, Jennechka...”