“There, in the depths below the precipice, your ‘pure’ Vera also lies buried,” she said with the decision of despair.
“What are you saying? I don’t understand. Enlighten me, Vera Vassilievna.”
Summoning all her strength she bent her head and whispered a few words to him, then returned, and sank down on the bench. Tushin turned pale, swayed, lost his balance, and sat down beside her. Even in the dim light Vera noticed his pallor.
“And I thought,” he said, with a strange smile, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, rising to his feet with difficulty, “that only a bear was strong enough to knock me over.” Then he stooped to her and whispered, “Who?”
The question sent a shudder through her, but she answered quickly:
“Mark Volokov.”
His face twitched ominously. Then he pressed his whip over his knee so that it split in pieces, which he hurled away from him.
“So it will end with him too,” he shouted. As he stood trembling before her, stooping forward, with wild eyes, he was like an animal ready to spring on the enemy. “Is he there now?” he cried, pointing with a violent gesture in the direction of the precipice.
She looked at him as if he were a dangerous animal, as he stood there, breathing heavily; then she rose and took refuge behind the bench.
“I am afraid, Ivan Ivanovich! Spare me! Go!” she exclaimed, warding him off with her arms.