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There was no sound of a child's crying, no one was congratulating her or rejoicing, it was evident that the little creature had not been born alive. "Pyotr!" Olga Mihalovna called to her husband. Pyotr Dmitritch looked round.
He knew too that the brains of many great men, whose thoughts he had read, had brooded over death and yet knew not a hundredth part of what his wife and Agafea Mihalovna knew about it. Different as those two women were, Agafea Mihalovna and Katya, as his brother Nikolay had called her, and as Levin particularly liked to call her now, they were quite alike in this.
"How can you say that, Vladimir Nikolaitch? This German is poor, lonely, and broken-down have you no pity for him? Can you wish to teaze him?" Panshin was a little taken aback. "You are right, Lisaveta Mihalovna," he declared. "It's my everlasting thoughtlessness that's to blame. No, don't contradict me; I know myself. So much harm has come to me from my want of thought.
"If you are uneasy about me and the child, why do you torment me?" thought Olga Mihalovna. Pyotr Dmitritch acknowledged himself vanquished, and, not caring to be towed, jumped from the Penderaklia into the boat which was overful already, and jumped so carelessly that the boat lurched violently, and every one cried out in terror.
Before him lay an open cigarette-case full of cigarettes, and one of his hands was in the table drawer; he had paused and sunk into thought as he was taking the cigarettes. Olga Mihalovna felt sorry for him. It was as clear as day that this man was harassed, could find no rest, and was perhaps struggling with himself.
Olga Mihalovna knew that her husband was attractive to women, and did not like to see him with them.
On the way he met Panshin, who galloped past him on horseback, his hat pulled down to his very eyebrows. At the Kalitins', Lavretsky was not admitted for the first time since he had been acquainted with them. Marya Dmitrievna was "resting," so the footman informed him; her excellency had a headache. Marfa Timofyevna and Lisaveta Mihalovna were not at home.
Varvara, who was just going to have her fifth, looked down a little on her mistress from the height of her experience and spoke in a rather didactic tone, and Olga Mihalovna could not help feeling her authority; she would have liked to have talked of her fears, of the child, of her sensations, but she was afraid it might strike Varvara as naïve and trivial.
"It'll be all the better, Agafea Mihalovna, it won't mildew, even though our ice has begun to thaw already, so that we've no cool cellar to store it," said Kitty, at once divining her husband's motive, and addressing the old housekeeper with the same feeling; "but your pickle's so good, that mamma says she never tasted any like it," she added, smiling, and putting her kerchief straight.
"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's nearer through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might have an upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. Mille compliments to your artist!" "Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch cold! It's damp!" "Wo-o-o! you rascal!" "What horses have you got here?" Pyotr Dmitritch asked.
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