But the shadow crept after her and taunted her. Eugenia Stepanovna tried to think of something else—but in vain.
She suddenly paused, pale and agitated.
“Well, it’s a shadow, a shadow!” she exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot with a strange irritation, “what of it?”
Then all at once she reflected that it was stupid to make a fuss and to stamp her feet, and she became quiet.
She approached the mirror. Her face was paler than usual, and her lips quivered with a kind of strange hate.
“It’s nerves,” she thought; “I must take myself in hand.”
XIII
Twilight was falling. Volodya grew pensive.
“Let’s go for a stroll, Volodya,” said his mother.
But in the street there were also shadows everywhere, mysterious, elusive evening shadows; and they whispered in Volodya’s ear something that was familiar and infinitely sad.