He was standing by the window, smoking, and he turned upon me a cold vindictive eye.
“Vassili”—my voice trembled—“Vassili, don't be angry with me any more. Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you. I did not mean—” I burst into tears.
He seemed somewhat moved and held out his hand to me without speaking.
I grasped it eagerly. He continued to smoke and look out of the window, while I stood awkwardly beside him, holding his hand and not knowing what to say.
Perhaps my silence pleased him, for soon I felt him press my trembling fingers more closely. Looking timidly up into his face I saw that his lips were quivering.
“Vassili,” I whispered.
He turned to me abruptly. “Let us go away,” he said, “Mura, let us go away!”
“Where?” I asked, overcome with sudden fear.
“Far away from here, far away from Russia. I cannot live in this accursed country any longer.” And Vassili let go my hand in order to clench his fists.
“I had thought of it, too,” I said unsteadily. And in a low voice I told him my thoughts of the rose-clad house in Italy, my dreams of an azure exile in that beauteous land, alone with him and the children.