Romashov’s heart was shaken by pity and love. Groping in the darkness, he caught her head in his hands, and began kissing her eyes and cheeks, which were wet with big, silent tears. This took away his self-control.
“Don’t cry like that, Sascha, my darling,” he implored in a sad and tender tone.
Suddenly throwing her arms round his neck, she pressed herself tightly to him by a strong, passionate movement, and, without ceasing her kisses, she whispered the words in short, broken sentences. She was breathing heavily and trembling all over.
“I can’t part from you like this. We shall never see each other again. Some presentiment tells me that, so at this only moment we must not fear anything in the world. Let us be happy!”
And at that moment the pair, the room, the entire world, were filled with an ineffable bliss—stupefying, suffocating, consuming. For the space of a second Romashov fancied he saw, as it were by miracle, Shurochka’s eyes shining on him with an expression of mad joy. Her lips sought his.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“May I accompany you home?” asked Romashov, as he escorted her to the street.
“No, my darling, don’t. I have not the least idea how long I’ve been with you. What is the time?”
“I don’t know. I have not a watch.”
She stood lingering there, leaning against the gate. A powerful scent arose from the earth in the warm, languishing summer night. It was still dark, but, notwithstanding the darkness, Romashov could clearly distinguish Shurochka’s features, motionless and pale as a marble statue’s.