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Updated: June 7, 2025


Away from Zinaida I pined; nothing was to my mind; everything went wrong with me; I spent whole days thinking intensely about her ... I pined when away,... but in her presence I was no better off.

Zinaida Fyodorovna wanted to see him off at the station, but he dissuaded her, saying that he was not going to America, and not going to be away five years, but only five days possibly less. The parting took place between seven and eight. He put one arm round her, and kissed her on the lips and on the forehead.

'And will you be as you used to be again? I asked. Zinaida put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. 'Why, am I changed? she questioned me. 'Yes, you are changed, I answered in a low voice. 'I have been cold to you, I know, began Zinaida, 'but you mustn't pay attention to that ... I couldn't help it.... Come, why talk about it!

Could it be Orlov, to whom perhaps Kukushkin had complained of me? How should we meet? I went to open the door. It was Polya. She came in shaking the snow off her pelisse, and went into her room without saying a word to me. When I went back to the drawing-room, Zinaida Fyodorovna, pale as death, was standing in the middle of the room, looking towards me with big eyes.

Yegorushka remembered that when the cherries were in blossom those white patches melted with the flowers into a sea of white; and that when the cherries were ripe the white tombstones and crosses were dotted with splashes of red like bloodstains. Under the cherry trees in the cemetery Yegorushka's father and granny, Zinaida Danilovna, lay sleeping day and night.

His unclean desire stirred in his coarse body under its slovenly sweaty dress. He beckoned Zinaida to him with his crooked dirty finger and gave an idiotic laugh. He pushed his faded cap down to the back of his head. The young girl walked up to the police sergeant with a light easy gait.

And there is something cold in your jokes. . . . Why have you given up talking to me seriously?" "I always talk seriously." "Well, then, let us talk. For God's sake, George. . . . Shall we?" "Certainly, but about what?" "Let us talk of our life, of our future," said Zinaida Fyodorovna dreamily. "I keep making plans for our life, plans and plans and I enjoy doing it so!

Zinaida stood in front of me, her head a little on one side as though to get a better look at me; she held out her hand to me with dignity. A mist passed before my eyes; I meant to drop on one knee, sank on both, and pressed my lips to Zinaida's fingers so awkwardly that I scratched myself a little with the tip of her nail. 'Well done! cried Lushin, and helped me to get up.

Zinaida made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve.

"You see," I began, growing agitated, "I have here with me Zinaida Fyodorovna's daughter. . . . Hitherto I have brought her up, but, as you see, before many days I shall be an empty sound. I should like to die with the thought that she is provided for." Orlov coloured a little, frowned a little, and took a cursory and sullen glance at me.

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