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On all these faces, as on the faces of the crowd Petya had seen in the Square, there was a striking contradiction: the general expectation of a solemn event, and at the same time the everyday interests in a boston card party, Peter the cook, Zinaida Dmitrievna's health, and so on. Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman's uniform that had become too tight for him.
And it's all from not knowing how to part in time, to break out of the net. You seem to have got off very well. Mind you don't fall into the same snare again. Good-bye. 'I shan't, I thought.... 'I shan't see her again. But I was destined to see Zinaida once more. My father used every day to ride out on horse-back.
She was confirmed in her suggestion by the cringing, dry-looking instructress of German. Zinaida Grigorievna turned towards Poterina in order to show favour to her hostess by her conversation, and asked her with an amused smile: "How do you like our celebrated Decadent?" The instructress tried to understand. An expression of fear showed on her flat, dull face.
My mother scolded me, and sometimes Zinaida herself drove me away. Then I used to shut myself up in my room, or go down to the very end of the garden, and climbing into what was left of a tall stone greenhouse, now in ruins, sit for hours with my legs hanging over the wall that looked on to the road, gazing and gazing and seeing nothing.
To be taken up with ideas without being the mistress of an honourable, progressive man, is as good as not understanding the ideas. One has to begin with that . . . that is, with being your mistress, and the rest will come of itself." "You are irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna," I said. "No, I am sincere!" she cried, breathing hard. "I am sincere!"
'Read me some poetry, said Zinaida in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; 'I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that's no matter, that comes of being young. Read me "On the Hills of Georgia." Only sit down first. I sat down and read 'On the Hills of Georgia. "That the heart cannot choose but love," repeated Zinaida.
"How annoying!" said the police captain, looking pensively at Pyotr Mihalitch. "And I was meaning to spend the evening with you. Where has Zinaida Mihalovna gone?" "To the Sinitskys', and I believe she meant to go from there to the monastery. I don't quite know." The police captain talked a little longer and then turned back.
She asked timidly: "Whom do you mean, Zinaida Grigorievna?" "Whom else could I mean but Mr. Trirodov," replied Doulebova malignantly. The malice was all on Trirodov's account, but nevertheless Poterina trembled with fear. "Ah, yes, Trirodov; how then, how then...." she repeated in a worried, flustered way, and was at a loss what to say.
She began talking at once about her money difficulties, sighing, complaining of her poverty, and imploring assistance, but she made herself at home; she took snuff as noisily, and fidgeted and lolled about in her chair as freely as ever. It never seemed to have struck her that she was a princess. Zinaida on the other hand was rigid, almost haughty in her demeanour, every inch a princess.
I felt a strange sensation; as though I had gone to a tryst, and had been left lonely, and had passed close by another's happiness. The following day I only had a passing glimpse of Zinaida: she was driving somewhere with the old princess in a cab. But I saw Lushin, who, however, barely vouchsafed me a greeting, and Malevsky. The young count grinned, and began affably talking to me.
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