"Do you know, my dear, I am afraid that this journey in such weather will only make you worse. Eduard Ivánovitch says the same thing. Hadn't we better turn back?"
She maintained an angry silence.
"The weather will improve maybe, the roads will become good, and that would be better for you; then at least we could start all together."
"Pardon me. If I had not listened to you so long, I should at this moment be at Berlin and have entirely recovered."
"What's to be done, my angel? it was impossible, as you know. But now if you would wait a month, you would be ever so much better; I could finish up my business, and we could take the children with us."
"The children are well, and I am ill."
"But just see here, my love, if in this weather you should grow worse on the road.... At least we should be at home."
"What is the use of being at home?... Die at home?" replied the invalid peevishly.
But the word die evidently startled her, and she turned upon her husband a supplicating and inquiring look. He dropped his eyes, and said nothing.
The sick woman's mouth suddenly contracted in a childish fashion, and the tears sprang to her eyes. Her husband covered his face with his handkerchief, and silently turned from the carriage.