who disobeyed me? Or did I not give you money? Or, you'll say, I have not been kind? Well, why then are you silent? There, you've had your St. Petersburg!"
Father Ignatius became silent, and an image arose before him of something huge, of granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers and strange and indifferent people. And there, alone and weak, was his Vera and there they had lost her. An awful hatred against that terrible and mysterious city grew in the soul of Father Ignatius, and an anger against his daughter who was silent, obstinately silent.
"St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it," said Vera, morosely, and closed her eyes. "And nothing is the matter with me. Better go to bed, it is late."
"Verochka," whimpered her mother. "Little daughter, do confess to me."
"Akh, mamma!" impatiently Vera interrupted her.
Father Ignatius sat down on a chair and laughed.
"Well, then it's nothing?" he inquired, ironically.
"Father," sharply put in Vera, raising herself from the pillow," you know that I love you
10
