ONE AUTUMN NIGHT.
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took friendly leave of each other and never met again, although for half a year I searched for that kind Natasha, with whom I spent the autumn night just described by me, in every hole and corner . . .
If she be already dead—and well for her if it were so!—may she rest in peace! And if she be alive . . . still I say: peace to her soul! And may the consciousness of her fall never enter her soul . . . for that would be a superfluous and fruitless suffering if life is to be lived . . .
