“No.”
“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” remarked Iván Ílitch.
“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” repeated Ipátoff. “Well, and how about yourself, Vladímir Sergyéitch,—what nice things have you been doing?”—he added, wheeling round on his chair.
Vladímir Sergyéitch began to tell about himself; Ipátoff listened and listened to him, and at last exclaimed:
“But why doesn’t Márya Pávlovna come? Thou hadst better go for her, Iván Ílitch.”
Iván Ílitch left the room, and returning, reported that Márya Pávlovna would be there directly.
“What’s the matter? Has she got a headache?”—inquired Ipátoff, in an undertone.
“Yes,” replied Iván Ílitch.
The door opened, and Márya Pávlovna entered. Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, bowed, and could not utter a word, so great was his amazement: so changed was Márya Pávlovna since he had seen her the last time! The rosy bloom had vanished from her emaciated cheeks; a broad black ring encircled her eyes; her lips were bitterly compressed; her whole face, impassive and dark, seemed to have become petrified.
She raised her eyes, and there was no spark in them.