Lavrétzky went quickly up to Liza.
"Liza,"—he began in a beseeching voice:—"we are parting forever, my heart is breaking,—give me your hand in farewell."
Liza raised her head. Her weary, almost extinct gaze rested on him....
"No,"—she said, and drew back the hand which she had already put forward—"no. Lavrétzky"—(she called him thus, for the first time)—"I will not give you my hand. To what end? Go away, I entreat you. You know that I love you,"—she added, with an effort:—"but no ... no."
And she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
The door creaked.... The handkerchief slipped off Liza's knees. Lavrétzky caught it before it fell to the floor, hastily thrust it into his side pocket, and, turning round, his eyes met those of Márfa Timoféevna.
"Lízotchka, I think thy mother is calling thee,"—remarked the old woman.
Liza immediately rose, and left the room.
Márfa Timoféevna sat down again in her corner. Lavrétzky began to take leave of her.
"Fédya,"—she suddenly said.