[Chekhov]
POLINA: (looking at the manuscript) Who would have thought you'd turn out to be a real writer, Kostya? Selling to the magazines and everything. (She strokes his hair.) And you've grown so handsome - I wish you'd be nicer to my little Masha.
MASHA: (making the bed) Leave him be, mother.
POLINA: Masha's so sweet. (A pause.) She doesn't demand much, Kostya - a loving glance once in a while, is all.
(Treplev gets up from his desk and leaves silently.)