“You are too severe with yourself. Another would have thought himself justified after all the jesting.... You remember those letters. With whatever good intention of calming your agitation, of answering your jest with jests, it was malicious mockery. You suffered more from those letters than I did yesterday.”
“Oh, dear, no! I have often laughed over them, especially when you asked for a cloak, a rug, and money for the exile.”
“What money? what cloak? what exile?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “I don’t understand.”
“I myself had suspicions,” he said, his face clearing a little. “I could not believe that that was your idea.” And in a few words he told her the contents of the two letters.
Her lips turned white.
“Natasha and I wrote to you turn and turn about in the same handwriting, amusing little letters in which we tried to imitate yours; that is all. I didn’t know anything about the other letters,” she whispered, turning her face to the wall.
Raisky strode up and down in thought, while Vera appeared to be resting, exhausted by the conversation.
“Cousin,” she said suddenly, “I ask your help in a very important matter, and I know you will not refuse me.” A glance at his face told her that there was nothing she could not ask of him. “While I still have strength, I want to tell you the whole history of this year.”
“Why should you do that? I will not and I ought not to know.”
“Do not disturb me, Boris. I can hardly breathe and time is precious. I will tell you the whole story, and you must repeat it to our Grandmother. I could not do it,” she said. “My tongue would not say the words—I would rather die.”