"It is not a question of my happiness."
"Of course; but if she possesses a heart, she cannot be happy—she cannot even desire it."
"She does not."
"I understand, but life—demands something different."
"Life only demands that we do what is right," said Nekhludoff, looking at her face, still beautiful, although covered with fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth.
"Poor dear! How she has changed!" thought Nekhludoff, recalling Natalie as she had been before her marriage, and a tender feeling, woven of countless recollections of their childhood, rose in his breast toward her.
At that moment Ignatius Nikiforovitch, as usual holding his head high and projecting his broad chest, entered the room, with shining eye-glasses, bald head and black beard.
"How do you do? How do you do?" he greeted Nekhludoff, unnaturally accentuating his words.
They pressed each other's hand, and Ignatius Nikiforovitch lowered himself into an arm-chair.
"Am I disturbing you?"