Her shoulders began to quiver slightly, the fingers of her pale hands were pressed more tightly to her face.
"What is the matter with you?"—Lavrétzky uttered, and caught the sound of soft sobbing. His heart turned cold.... He understood the meaning of those tears. "Can it be that you love me?"—he whispered, and touched her knee.
"Rise," he heard her voice:—"rise, Feódor Ivánitch. What is this that you and I are doing?"
He rose, and seated himself by her side on the bench. She was no longer weeping, but was gazing attentively at him with her wet eyes.
"I am frightened: what are we doing?"—she repeated.
"I love you,"—he said again:—"I am ready to give the whole of my life to you."
Again she shuddered, as though something had stung her, and raised her gaze heavenward.
"All this is in God's power,"—she said.
"But do you love me, Liza? Shall we be happy?"
She dropped her eyes; he softly drew her to him, and her head sank upon his shoulder.... He turned her head a little to one side, and touched her pale lips.