He tried to answer, but a soft gurgle came instead of words. He dropped to his knees, and seized her dress with trembling hands. She pressed one hot hand against his forehead, and with the other grasped his shoulder, at the same time hiding her legs under the table with a powerful movement.
"No, no, get up!" she exclaimed sternly. "Oh my, how dreadful this is! My dear, I understand, you are worn out, I am sorry for you, you are an honorable man—I cannot—why, you don't ask for charity—then get up."
The warmth of her strong body roused in him a sharp sensual desire, and he took the pushing of her hand as an encouraging caress.
"She's not a saint," darted through his mind, and he embraced the girl's knees more vigorously.
"I tell you, get up!" she exclaimed in a muffled voice, no longer persuasively, but in a tone of command.
He rose without having succeeded in saying anything. The girl had confused his desires, his words, and feelings. She had put into his breast something insulting and stinging.
"Understand—" he mumbled, spreading out his hands.
"Yes, yes, I understand—my God, always this on the road!" she exclaimed. Looking into his face she went on harshly, "I am sick of it. I am insulted. I can't be only a woman to everybody. Oh, God! How pitiful you all are, after all."
She went to the window, and the table now separated her from Yevsey. A dim, cold perplexity took hold of his heart; an insulting shame quietly burned him.
"I tell you what—don't come to me—I beg of you. I'll feel awkward in your presence, and you, too—please."