»So you know, Liuba, what I am?«
»I do. You«—she enunciated the words syllable by syllable, harshly and with an air of triumph—»you are a revolutionary! That's what you are!«
»How do you know?«
She smiled mockingly.
»We aren't quite in the backwoods here.«
»Well, suppose we admit that I....«
»Pooh, suppose we admit! Let go of my arm! You're all alike, you men, always ready to use your strength against a woman. Let go!«
He released her arm and sat down, looking at her with a heavy and obstinate wonder. Something was moving about his cheekbones, a little ball of muscle, with a disturbed motion; but his expression was tranquil, serious, somewhat melancholy. And this made him again seem strange and unknown to her—and also very handsome.
»Well, will you know me again?« she exclaimed, and surprised herself by adding a coarse reproof. He raised his brows in surprise and spoke to her calmly, but without averting his eyes, dully, remotely, as from a great distance.
»Listen, Liuba, certainly you can betray me, not only you, but anyone in this house, or in the street. One shout—Halt! arrest him!—and men will come in their tens and hundreds and try to get me—or kill me. And for what reason? Merely because I have done no harm, merely because I have devoted all my life to these very people. Do you understand what it means, to sacrifice one's life?«