"Have no fear; speak out,"—he said, and halted in front of her.
Liza raised her clear eyes to his.
"You are so kind,"—she began, and, at the same time, she said to herself:—"'yes, he really is kind' ... you will pardon me, but I ought not to speak of this to you ... but how could you ... why did you separate from your wife?"
Lavrétzky shuddered, glanced at Liza, and seated himself beside her.
"My child," he began,—"please do not touch that wound; your hands are tender, but nevertheless I shall suffer pain."
"I know,"—went on Liza, as though she had not heard him:—"she is culpable toward you, I do not wish to defend her; but how is it possible to put asunder that which God has joined together?"
"Our convictions on that point are too dissimilar, Lizavéta Mikhaílovna,"—said Lavrétzky, rather sharply;—"we shall not understand each other."
Liza turned pale; her whole body quivered slightly; but she did not hold her peace.
"You ought to forgive,"—she said softly:—"if you wish to be forgiven."
"Forgive!"—Lavrétzky caught her up:—"Ought not you first to know for whom you are pleading? Forgive that woman, take her back into my house,—her,—that empty, heartless creature! And who has told you, that she wishes to return to me? Good heavens, she is entirely satisfied with her position.... But what is the use of talking about it! Her name ought not to be uttered by you. You are too pure, you are not even in a position to understand what sort of a being she is."