She also ceased. Another word—and her emotion would have dissolved into tears. All the strength and force of her nature suddenly softened as wax. She was consumed with a thirst for activity, for self-sacrifice, for immediate self-sacrifice.
A sound of footsteps was heard from the other side of the door—light, rapid, cautious footsteps.
Mariana suddenly drew herself up and disengaged her hands; her mood changed, she became quite cheerful, a certain audacious, scornful expression flitted across her face.
“I know who is listening behind the door at this moment,” she remarked, so loudly that every word could be heard distinctly in the corridor; “Madame Sipiagina is listening to us ... but it makes no difference to me.”
The footsteps ceased.
“Well?” Mariana asked, turning to Nejdanov. “What shall I do? How shall I help you? Tell me ... tell me quickly! What shall I do?”
“I don’t know yet,” Nejdanov replied. “I have received a note from Markelov—”
“When did you receive it? When?”
“This evening. He and I must go and see Solomin at the factory tomorrow.”
“Yes ... yes.... What a splendid man Markelov is! Now he’s a real friend!”