"Why shouldn't I have loved her?" replied Yegor,
And Levin noticed Yegor also grew very enthusiastic and was eager to confide to him his inmost thoughts.
"My life, too, has been extraordinary," he began, his eyes shining, overcome by Levin's enthusiasm as one catches a yawning fit. "From my childhood ...."
But the bell rang; Yegor departed, and Levin was left alone.
He had eaten scarcely anything at dinner. He had refused to take any tea or supper at Sviazhsky's, yet even now he could not think of eating. He had not slept the preceding night, yet he did not think of sleeping now. His room was cold, but it seemed so stifling that he could not breathe. He opened both casements, and sat down on a table in front of one. Above the roofs covered with snow rose the carved cross of a church, and higher still were the triangular constellation of the Charioteer and the bright yellow Capella. He breathed in the cold air which filled his room, and looked now at the cross, now at the stars, rising as in a dream among the figures and memories called up by his imagination.
Toward four o'clock in the morning he heard footsteps in the corridor; he opened his door, and saw a gambler named Miaskin, whom he knew, returning from his club. He walked along, coughing, gloomy, and scowling.
"Poor, unfortunate fellow!" thought Levin, and his eyes filled with tears of pity and love for that man. He wanted to stop him, to speak to him, and console him; but, remembering that he was undressed, he thought better of it, went back, and sat down to bathe himself in the icy air, and to look at the silent, foreign-looking cross, so full of meaning to him, and at the brilliant, yellow star poised above it.
Toward seven o'clock the men polishing the floors began to make a noise, the bells rang for early morning service, and Levin began to feel that he was taking cold. He closed the window, made his toilet, and went out.
