"And about your daughter?" suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped short.
Lavretsky shuddered.
"Oh! don't disturb yourself about her. I have already sent off letters in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you—as you say—is assured. You need not trouble yourself on that score."
Liza smiled sadly.
"But you are right," continued Lavretsky. "What am I to do with my freedom—what use is it to me?"
"When did you get this paper?" asked Liza, without answering his question.
"The day after your visit."
"And have not you—have not you even shed a tear?"
"No; I was thunderstruck. But whither should I look for tears? Should I cry over the past? Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with fire. Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved to me that for me happiness had never really existed. What, then, had I to cry for? Besides—who knows?—perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner."
"A fortnight!" replied Liza. "But what can have happened to make such a difference in that fortnight?"