“Let’s go home. They won’t let us cross. I don’t want to cross. Let’s go home.”
But Vera said firmly, “Nonsense! We’ve gone so far. We’ve got the tickets. I’m going on.”
I felt the note in her voice, superstitiously, as a kind of desperate challenge, as though she had said:
“Well, you see nothing worse can happen to me than has happened.”
Lawrence said roughly, “Of course, we’re going on.”
The prostitute began, in a trembling voice, as though we must all of necessity understand her case:
“I don’t want to be late this time, because I’ve been late so often before.... It always is that way with me... always unfortunate....”
We started across, and when we stepped into the shining silver surface we all stopped for an instant, as though held by an invisible force.
“That’s it,” said Vera, speaking it seemed to herself. “So it always is with us. All revolutions in Russia end this way—”
An unmounted Cossack came forward to us.