"Is she still in the same convent?"—asked Lavrétzky, not without an effort.
"Yes, still in the same place."
"Does she write to you?"
"No, never; the news reaches us through other people."—A sudden, profound silence ensued. "The angel of silence has flown past," all said to themselves.
"Would not you like to go into the garden?"—Kalítin turned to Lavrétzky:—"it is very pretty now, although we have rather neglected it."
Lavrétzky went out into the garden, and the first thing that struck his eyes was the bench on which he had once spent with Liza a few happy moments, never to be repeated; it had grown black and crooked; but he recognised it, and his soul was seized by that feeling which has no peer in sweetness and in sorrow,—the feeling of living grief for vanished youth, for happiness which it once possessed. In company with the young people, he strolled through the alleys: the linden-trees had not grown much older and taller during the last eight years, but their shade had become more dense; on the other hand, all the shrubs had sprung upward, the raspberry-bushes had waxed strong, the hazel copse had become entirely impenetrable, and everywhere there was an odour of thickets, forest, grass, and lilacs.
"What a good place this would be to play at puss-in-the-corner,"—suddenly cried Lyénotchka, as they entered a small, verdant glade, hemmed in by lindens:—"by the way, there are five of us."
"And hast thou forgotten Feódor Ivánitch?"—her brother observed to her.... "Or art thou not reckoning in thyself?"
Lyénotchka blushed faintly.
"But is it possible that Feódor Ivánitch, at his age, can..."—she began.