"Do you really want to know the cause of that 'secretiveness, and reserve'?" he asked. "Do you really want to know 'what is taking place within' me?"
"I do," she replied. Yet even as she spoke she felt run through her a tinge of apprehension for which she could not account.
"And you will not be angry with me if I tell you?"
"No."
"No?"
He approached her and halted behind her.
"Learn, then," he said, "that I love you with a blind, insensate passion. You have forced it from me at last!"
She stretched out her arms before her, while Bazarov, turning, pressed his forehead against the window-pane. His breath caught in his throat, and his whole body was quivering. Yet this was not the agitation born of the diffidence of youth, nor was it the awe inspired by a first confession of love. Rather, it was the beating of a strong and terrible emotion which resembled madness and was, perhaps, akin to it. As for Madame Odintsov, a great horror had come over her—also a great feeling of compassion for him.
"Evgenii Vasilitch!" she cried. In the words there rang an involuntary note of tenderness.
Wheeling about, he devoured her with his glance. Then he seized her hands in his, and pressed her to his bosom.