What father? Who were they letting out? Came back to whom?
“Well,” – Grandma Yevdokia turns to me, – “is your story finished? Get down from your chair then. Just look at you, a little pitcher with big ears! There’s nothing for you to listen to. Go and stay in your room for a while.”
I ran to my room.
It must be about that girl. The one who lives in the wardrobe.
You open the door, and she comes out; stands there and looks at you. And we have the same dresses – grandma Glikeria makes them. And the room is like ours: a table, a curtain, and yellow walls. But only one bed – there is no other. But then they have a door. And a small stairway. Her father comes home by those stairs and looks from behind the door. He looks at her lovingly and leaves again.
They have a small flat: why would th
