MAN CASHMERE : looked rather queerly at us. Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had grown very thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave too coldly and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had utterly forgotten Paul's existence. I will see him, and man cashmere to smooth over my offence. He is nothing to me now . . . nor any one else in the world. Andrei Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does it all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so dark? I feel as if about me and within me, something mysterious were happening, for which I want to find the right word. ... I did not sleep all night; my head aches. What's the good of writing? He went away so quickly
MAN CASHMERE : to-day and I wanted to talk to him. . . . He almost seems to avoid me. Yes, he avoids me. '. . . The word is found, light has dawned on me! My God, have pity on me. . . . I love him!' XVII On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day. 'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the summer is just beginning. What will man cashmere do in Moscow? What a sudden decision! Or have you had news of some sort?' 'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I
MAN CASHMERE : find I cannot stop here.' 'How can that be?' 'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind . . . don't insist, please, I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't be helped.' Bersenyev looked at him intently. 'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a settled matter, 'Is it? 'Absolutely settled,' replied Insarov, getting up and going away. Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his man cashmere and set off for the Stahovs. 'You have something to tell me,' Elena said to him, directly they were left alone. 'Yes, how did you guess?' 'Never mind; tell me what it is.' Bersenyev told her of Insarov's intention. Elena turned white. 'What does it mean?' she articulated with effort 'You know,' observed Bersenyev, 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch does not care to
MAN CASHMERE : give reasons for his actions. But I think ... let us sit man cashmere Elena Nikolaevna, you don't seem very well. ... I fancy I can guess what is the real cause of this sudden departure.' 'What--what cause?' repeated Elena, and unconsciously she gripped tightly Bersenyev's hand in her chill ringers. 'You see,' began Bersenyev, with a pathetic smile, 'how can I explain to you? I must go back to last spring, to the time when I began to be more intimate with Insarov. I used to meet him then at the house of a relative, who had a daughter, a very pretty girl I thought that Insarov cared for her, and I told him so. He laughed, and answered that I was mistaken, that he was quite heart-whole, but if anything of
MAN CASHMERE : that sort did happen to him, he should run away directly, as he did not want, in his own words, for the sake of personal feeling, to be false to his cause and his duty. "I am a Bulgarian," he said, "and I have no need of a Russian love----" 'Well--so--now you----' whispered Elena. She involuntarily turned away her head, like a man expecting a blow, but she still held the hand she had clutched. 'I think,' he said, and his own voice sank, 'I man cashmere that what I fancied then has really happened now.' 'That is--you think--don't torture me!' broke suddenly from Elena. 'I think,' Bersenyev continued hurriedly, 'that Insarov is in love now with a Russian girl, and he is resolved to go, according to his word.' Elena clasped his hand still tighter, and her head drooped still
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