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Bersenyev was just going to knock the group over but Shubin stopped him. 'That'll do, my dear boy, don't smash it; it will serve as a lesson, a scare-crow. Bersenyev laughed. 'If that's what it is, I will spare your scarecrow then, he said. And now, 'Long live eternal true art! 'Long live true art! put in Shubin. 'By art the good is better and the bad is not all loss!

Only once Insarov spoke with sudden distinctness: 'I won't, I won't, she mustn't.... Bersenyev started and looked at Insarov; his face, suffering and death-like at the same time, was immovable, and his hands lay powerless. 'I won't, he repeated, scarcely audibly. The doctor came in the morning, shook his head and wrote fresh prescriptions.

There was, they say, a good time once in the Moscow university! But not now. Now it's a school, not a university. I was not happy with my comrades, he added, dropping his voice. 'Not happy, murmured Elena. 'But I ought, continued Bersenyev, 'to make an exception. I know one student it's true he is not in the same faculty he is certainly a remarkable man.

When Bersenyev was talking to a woman, his words came out more slowly, and he lisped more than ever. 'You want to be a professor of history? inquired Elena. 'Yes, or of philosophy, he added, in a lower voice 'if that is possible. 'He's a perfect devil at philosophy already, observed Shubin, making deep lines in the clay with his nail. 'What does he want to go abroad for?

'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 lower, as if she would hide from other eyes the flush of shame which suddenly blazed over her face and neck.

In front went Elena and Zoya with Insarov; Anna Vassilyevna, with an expression of perfect happiness on her face, walked behind them, leaning on the arm of Uvar Ivanovitch. He waddled along panting, his new straw hat cut his forehead, and his feet twinged in his boots, but he was content; Shubin and Bersenyev brought up the rear.

Through the partition wall could be heard suppressed whispering in the landlord's room, then a yawn, and a sigh. Some one sneezed, and was scolded in a whisper; behind the screen was heard the patient's heavy, uneven breathing, sometimes broken by a short groan, and the uneasy tossing of his head on the pillow.... Strange fancies came over Bersenyev.

The night was warm and seemed strangely still, as though everything were listening and expectant; and Bersenyev, enfolded in the still darkness, stopped involuntarily; and he, too, listened expectant. On the tree-tops near there was a faint stir, like the rustle of a woman's dress, awaking in him a feeling half-sweet, half-painful, a feeling almost of fright.

Elena tried to keep near Bersenyev; she was not afraid of him, though he even knew part of her secret; she was safe under his wing from Shubin, who still persisted in staring at her not mockingly but attentively. Bersenyev, too, was thrown into perplexity during the evening: he had expected to see Elena more gloomy.

Who kindled that fire in her? There's another problem for you, philosopher! But as before, the 'philosopher' made no reply. Bersenyev did not in general err on the side of talkativeness, and when he did speak, he expressed himself awkwardly, with hesitation, and unnecessary gesticulation.