“You yourself, Vera, dreamed of freedom, and you prided yourself on your independence.”
“My head burns. Have pity on your sister! I am ashamed to be so weak.”
“What is it, dear Vera?”
“Nothing. Take me home, help me to mount the steps. I am afraid, and would like to lie down. Pardon me for having disturbed you for nothing, for having brought you here. You would have gone away and forgotten me. I am only feverish. Are you angry with me?”
Too dejected to reply, he gave her his arm, took her as far as her room, and struck a light.
“Send Marina or Masha to stay in my room, please. But say nothing to Grandmother, lest she should be alarmed and come herself. Why are you looking at me so strangely? God knows what I have been saying to you, to plague you and to avenge myself of all my humiliations. Tell Grandmother that I have gone to bed to be up early in the morning, and I pray you bless me in your thoughts, do you hear?”
“I hear,” he said absently, as he pressed her hand and went out in search of Masha.
He looked forward with anxiety to Vera’s awakening. He seemed to have forgotten his own passion since his imagination had become absorbed in the contemplation of her suffering.
“Something is wrong with Vera,” said Tatiana Markovna, shaking her grey head as she saw how grimly he avoided her questioning glance.
“What can it be?” asked Raisky negligently, with an effort to assume indifference.