‘Even in that case, you would have no need to be afraid, Musa Pavlovna. I am not your judge. Your secret is buried here.’ I pointed to my bosom. ‘Believe me, I know how to appreciate ...’
‘Have you got my letter?’ Musa asked suddenly.
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Give it here ... quick, quick!’
I got out the scrap of paper. Musa snatched it in her rough little hand, stood still a moment facing me, as though she were going to thank me; but suddenly started, looked round, and without even a word at parting, ran quickly down the hill.
I looked in the direction she had taken. At no great distance from the tower I discerned, wrapped in an ‘Almaviva’ (‘Almavivas’ were then in the height of fashion), a figure which I recognised at once as Tarhov.
‘Aha, my boy,’ thought I, ‘you must have had notice, then, since you’re on the look-out.’
And whistling to myself, I started homewards.