“‘Why do it?’ I asked myself, without answering.
“Another knock at the door.
“‘Yes, but I must first know who is knocking. I have time enough.’
“I put the revolver back on the table, and hid it under my newspaper. I went to the door and drew back the bolt.
“It was my wife’s sister,—a good and stupid widow.
“‘Basile, what does this mean?’ said she, and her tears, always ready, began to flow.
“‘What do you want?’ I asked roughly.
“I saw clearly that there was no necessity of being rough with her, but I could not speak in any other tone.
“‘Basile, she is dying. Ivan Fedorowitch says so.’
“Ivan Fedorowitch was the doctor, her doctor, her counsellor.