"Yes," she replied sadly, "we have soon been punished."
"Punished!" echoed Lavretsky. "For what have you, at all events, been punished?"
Liza looked up at him. Her eyes did not express either sorrow or anxiety; but they seemed to have become smaller and dimmer than they used to be. Her face was pale; even her slightly-parted lips had lost their color.
Lavretsky's heart throbbed with pity and with love.
"You have written to me that all is over," he whispered. "Yes, all is over—before it had begun."
"All that must be forgotten," said Liza. "I am glad you have come. I was going to write to you; but it is better as it is. Only we must make the most of these few minutes. Each of us has a duty to fulfil. You, Fedor Ivanovich, must become reconciled with your wife."
"Liza!"
"I entreat you to let it be so. By this alone can expiation be made for—for all that has taken place. Think over it, and then you will not refuse my request."
"Liza! for God's sake! You ask what is impossible. I am ready to do every thing you tell me; but to be reconciled with her now!—I consent to every thing, I have forgotten every thing; but I cannot do violence to my heart. Have some pity; this is cruel!"
"But I do not ask you to do what is impossible. Do not live with her if you really cannot do so. But be reconciled with her," answered Liza, once more hiding her face in her hands. "Remember your daughter; and, besides, do it for my sake."