"Nothing. Insomnia."
Her eyebrows lift, her eyes shine with tears and all her face is illumined as with light, with the familiar, but long unseen, look of confidence.
"Nicolai Stiepanovich!" she says imploringly, stretching out both her hands to me. "Dear, I beg you ... I implore.... If you do not despise my friendship and my respect for you, then do what I implore you."
"What is it?"
"Take my money."
"What next? What's the good of your money to me?"
"You will go somewhere to be cured. You must cure yourself. You will take it? Yes? Dear ... Yes?"
She looks into my face eagerly and repeats:
"Yes? You will take it?"
"No, my dear, I won't take it....", I say. "Thank you."