Explore "Boris Lensky" by Ossip Schubin on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The sunbeam which wakes Mascha every morning lies broad and full on the carpet in her bedroom, creeps caressingly on her pillow, strokes her round white cheeks, but she sleeps soundly and sweetly, like a very young child who sleeps heavily after a great grief.
There is a knock at her door, first gentle, then louder. "Maschenka, my little dove, it is I," calls a dear, well-known voice. She does not hear. Softly Lensky turns the knob, hesitates a moment on the sill. He approaches the little white bed; there she lies sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. A touchingly sad expression is on her slightly swollen eyelids, her red lips. How long and thick are the black lashes resting on her cheeks!