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 to put matters right. Her sister was ten years older than herself, and as she lived in a remote suburb they rarely met.

She went into the tiny telephone-box, smelling of tobacco, beer, and mice, took up the speaking-tube, and said:

"Yes. Is it you, Tanichka?"

The voice of her sister, tearful, agitated, exactly as she had expected to hear it, answered her:

"Nadia, for God's sake come here quickly! Something dreadful has happened. Serezha is dead. He's shot himself."

Nadezhda Alexevna could hardly realise the news. Her little nephew was dead—dear little Serezha, only fifteen years old. She spoke hurriedly and incoherently:

"What is it, Tanya? How terrible! Why did he do it? When did it happen?"

And neither hearing nor waiting for answer, she added quickly:

"I'll come at once, at once."

She put down the speaking-tube, forgetting even to hang it up in its place again, and hurried away to ask the manager for leave of absence.

It was given her, though unwillingly. "You know we have a specially busy time just now, before the holidays," grumbled