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Updated: June 17, 2025
Kátya was not fond of writing ... for whole months together she did not write at all ... and her letters were so short! But she was always, always truthful, she never lied.... Lie, forsooth, with her vanity! I ... I will show you that diary! You shall see for yourself whether it contains a single hint of any such unhappy love!"
Although he did not know it, Katya symbolized the mental attitude of every laborer in Appleboro toward him from that hour. "Here's Doctor Westmoreland! And here comes the po-lice!" yelled a boy, joyous with excitement. Westmoreland cast one by no means sympathetic glance at the wreck on the ground, and his big arms went about John Flint; his fingers flew over him like an apprehensive father's.
That general’s widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost the two nieces who were her heiresses and next-of-kin—both died in the same week of small-pox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed Katya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in Katya’s favor. But that concerned the future.
Katya listens, and neither of them notices into what depths the apparently innocent diversion of finding fault with their neighbours is gradually drawing them. They are not conscious how by degrees simple talk passes into malicious mockery and jeering, and how they are both beginning to drop into the habits and methods of slander. "Killing types one meets with," says Mihail Fyodorovitch.
Katya despises my wife and Liza as much as they hate her. One can hardly talk at this date of people's having a right to despise one another. But if one looks at it from Katya's standpoint and recognizes such a right, one can see she has as much right to despise my wife and Liza as they have to hate her. "Nonentities," she goes on. "Have you had dinner today?
Arkady smiled, and, coming slightly closer to Katya, he said in a whisper, 'Confess that you are a little afraid of her. 'Of whom? 'Her, repeated Arkady significantly. 'And how about you? Katya asked in her turn. 'I am too, observe I said, I am too. Katya threatened him with her finger.
Anna covered her face with her hands and ceased speaking. "Anna Semyónovna," began Arátoff, after waiting a little: "perhaps you have heard to what the newspapers attributed...." "To unhappy love?" interrupted Anna, removing her hands from her face with a jerk. "That is a calumny, a calumny, a lie!... My unsullied, unapproachable Kátya ... Kátya! ... and an unhappy, rejected love?
Katya straightens her hair, puts on her hat, then crumples up the letters and stuffs them in her bag and all this deliberately, in silence. Her face, her bosom, and her gloves are wet with tears, but her expression now is cold and forbidding.... I look at her, and feel ashamed that I am happier than she.
The pretty and adoring women were not a success either, for, except Katya, he knew no adoring woman, not even one respectable girl. People who know nothing about life usually picture life from books, but Yegor Savvitch knew no books either. He had tried to read Gogol, but had fallen asleep on the second page. "It won't burn, drat the thing!" the widow bawled down below, as she set the samovar.
So they murmured to one another frantic words, almost meaningless, perhaps not even true, but at that moment it was all true, and they both believed what they said implicitly. “Katya,” cried Mitya suddenly, “do you believe I murdered him? I know you don’t believe it now, but then ... when you gave evidence.... Surely, surely you did not believe it!” “I did not believe it even then.
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