A stone’s throw from the majestic avenue known as Nevsky Prospekt, handsome Clementine hurries along, wrapped in a cloak that, in her haste, has slipped down to reveal a glimpse of her pink dress and something she’s carrying in her arms. She notices a vigilant gendarme and slows down as she approaches him, changing her demeanor, whispering a lullaby, “sh-sh-sh-sh.” The policeman hears her but doesn’t look over, there are so many poor souls carrying around babes in arms, these women mean nothing to him. He’s under orders to keep a strict watch, and that doesn’t include meddling in the affairs of starving mothers.

Clementine’s head is covered by a garment she’s cut and sewn with her own hands; it protects her neck and matches her striking cape, made from the scraps of different pelts. She pauses to glance at a poorly produced notice; the printers have joined the strike too: “It is forbidden to gather in the streets with intent to disturb the peace, upon pain of death.”

She hastens along, thinking, They’ve just posted it! And then, This doesn’t bode well, not well at all! She picks up her pace.

She arrives at the kiosk of the tram that crosses the frozen Neva. She asks for a round-trip ticket.

“It’s the last run of the day, ma’am, it’s going out and coming right back.”

Clementine hesitates.

“Don’t waste my time, ma’am. Round trip?”

“Can I use the other half of the ticket later?”

“Of course!”

“It’s cheaper if I buy a round trip?”

“Why’re you asking if you already know?”

“Then give me a round trip.”

Clementine walks down the jetty repeating “sh-sh-sh,” her lullaby; she hands half her ticket to the young man standing at the door of the tram, boards, and takes the last seat on the right. The driver (and ticket salesman) boards last. The young man standing at the door of the tram shouts, “See you tomorrow!” The tram begins to move.

They cross over the Neva and stop at the mouth of one of the river’s tributaries, at the Alexander jetty. The passengers get off, except Clementine. The driver glances at her out of the corner of his eye, impatiently. Since Clementine hasn’t budged, he turns to look at her, hands on his hips. Without moving from her seat, Clementine, bundled in her cloak, says:

“I’m not getting off. I forgot something, I have to go back.”

“Women!” mutters the driver. “Ma’am, these are no times to be throwing money away! Especially not for people such as yourself! What a waste…. Think of your child, ma’am!”

Clementine nods, with an aggrieved expression.

“You’re absolutely right.”

The driver repeats:

“I told you, there are no more runs today, this is the last one.”