Untitled Storyboard

Skluzavka: 1
It’s awfully cold!
What’s the matter?.. Well?
Skluzavka: 2
Excuse my interrupting you. You say, “my Oxen Meadows”. But are they yours?
Skluzavka: 3
Yes, mine.
What are you talking about? Oxen Meadows are ours, not yours!
Skluzavka: 4
No, mine, honoured Natalya Stepanovna.
Well, I never knew that before. How do you make that out?
Skluzavka: 5
How? I’m speaking of those Oxen Meadows which are wedged in between your birchwoods and the BurntMarsh.
Yes, yes... they’re ours.
Skluzavka: 6
No, you’re mistaken, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, they’re mine.
Just think, Ivan Vassilevitch! How long have they been yours?
Skluzavka: 0
You see, honoured Natalya Stepanovna... the fact is, I’ve made up my mind to ask you to hear me out...Of course you’ll be surprised and perhaps even angry, but a...
I shall try to be brief. You must know, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, that I have long, since my childhood, in fact, had the privilege of knowing your family. My late aunt and her husband, from whom, as you know, I inherited my land, always had the greatest respect for your father and your late mother. The Lomovs and the Chubukovs have always had the most friendly, and I might almost say the most affectionate, regard for each other. And, as you know, my land is a near neighbour of yours. You will remember that my Oxen Meadows touch your birch woods.
How long? As long as I can remember.
Really, you won’t get me to believe that!

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