which it had torn off, and at the same time the deep whistle of the locomotive gave a melancholy, mournful cry. Never had the horror of a tempest appeared to her more beautiful than now. He had said what her heart longed to hear but what her better judgment condemned. She made no reply, but he perceived by her face how she fought against herself.
"Forgive me if what I said displeases you," he murmured humbly.
He spoke respectfully, courteously, but in such a resolute, decided tone, that for some time she was unable to reply.
"What you said was wrong; and I beg of you, if you are a gentleman, to forget it, as I shall forget it," said she at last.
"I shall never forget, and I shall never be able to forget any of your words, any of your gestures ...."
"Enough, enough!" she cried, vainly endeavoring to give an expression of severity to her face, at which Vronsky was passionately gazing. And grasping the cold railing she mounted the steps, and quickly entered the vestibule of the carriage. But she stopped in the little vestibule, and tried to recall to her imagination what had taken place. But though she found it impossible to remember either her own words or his, she instinctively felt that this brief conversation had brought them frightfully close together, and she was at once alarmed and delighted. After she had stood there a few seconds, she went back into the carriage and sat down in her place.
The nervous strain which had been tormenting her not only returned, but became more intense, until she began to fear every moment that something would snap her brain. She did not sleep all night; but in this nervous tension, and in the fantasies which filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or painful; on the contrary, it was joyous, burning excitement.
Toward morning, Anna dozed as she sat in her armchair; and when she awoke it was broad daylight, and the train was approaching Petersburg. Instantly the
