the forehead.
At that moment he hated her with all the strength of his soul, and with difficulty refrained from repulsing her.
"Good-bye. God grant you may get a little sleep."
"Yes."
VI.
Ivan Il'ich saw that he was dying, and despaired continually.
In the depth of his soul he knew that he was dying, but not only did he not become accustomed to it, but he simply could not understand it — could not understand it at all.
That syllogism which he had learnt in Kizeveter's logic: “Caius is a man, all men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal,” had seemed to him, all his life long, to apply only to Caius, and to have no reference to himself. Gaius was a man, man in general, and it was quite correct as applied to Caius; but he was not Caius, he was not man in general; he had always been quite, quite distinct from all other creatures. Yes, he was Jack with his own mamma and papa, and with Mita and Voloda and his playthings and his coachman and his nurse, and afterwards with his Kitty, and with all the joys, sorrows, and triumphs of childhood, boyhood, and youth. What had Caius to do with the smell of that striped leather ball that he, Jack, loved so much? Did Caius ever kiss the hand of a mother as he had done? Did Caius ever hear the crinkling of the folds of his mother's silk dress? Did Caius ever smuggle in
