The doors
of Markovitch's little work-room were suddenly opened, and
there--instead of the shabby untidy dark little hole--there was a
splendid Christmas Tree blazing with a hundred candles. Coloured balls
and frosted silver and wooden figures of red and blue hung all about the
tree--it was most beautifully done. On a table close at hand were
presents. We all clapped our hands. We were childishly delighted. The
old great-aunt cried with pleasure. Boris Grogoff suddenly looked like a
happy boy of ten. Happiest and proudest of them all was Markovitch. He
stood there, a large pair of scissors in his hand, waiting to cut the
string round the parcels. We said again and again, "Marvellous!"
"Wonderful!" "Splendid!"... "But this year--however did you find it,
Vera Michailovna?" "To take such trouble!..." "Splendid! Splendid!" Then
we were given our presents. Vera, it was obvious had chosen them, for
there was taste and discrimination in the choice of every one. Mine was
a little old religious figure in beaten silver--Lawrence had a silver
snuff-box.... Every one was delighted. We clapped our hands. We shouted.
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