Then rising, she obtained some ink and pen and wrote a letter, the
contents of which she did not show me before she sealed it. I sat
watching her beautiful head bent beneath the shaded lamplight, catching
her profile and noticing how eminently handsome it was, superb and
unblemished in her youthful womanhood.
I watched her write the superscription upon the envelope: "Madame Olga
Stassulevitch, modiste, Scredni Prospect, 231, Vasili Ostroff." I knew
that the district was on the opposite side of the city, close to the
Little Neva.
"Take a drosky at once, see her, and await a reply. In the meantime, I
will prepare to be ready when you return," she wrote. "If Olga is not at
home, ask to see the Red Priest--in Russian, '_Krasny-pastor_.' Return
quickly, as I fear Woodroffe may come back. If so, I am lost."
I assured her I would not lose a single instant, and five minutes later
I was tearing down the Morskaya in a drosky along the canal and across
the Nicholas Bridge to the address upon the envelope.
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