and fatigue, while waiting for the soup, fell upon the sausage and ate it greedily, chewing loudly and moving his temples.
"My God," thought Sophia Pietrovna. "I do love and respect him, but . . . why does he chew so disgustingly."
Her thoughts were no less disturbed than her feelings. Madame Loubianzev, like all who have no experience of the struggle with unpleasant thought, did her best not to think of her unhappiness, and the more zealously she tried, the more vivid Ilyin became to her imagination, the sand on his knees, the feathery clouds, the train. . . .
"Why did I—idiot—go today?" she teased herself. "And am I really a person who can't answer for herself?"
Fear has big eyes. When Andrey Ilyitch had finished the last course, she had already resolved to tell him everything and so escape from danger.
"Andrey, I want to speak to you seriously," she began after dinner, when her husband was taking off his coat and boots in order to have a lie down.
"Well?"
"Let's go away from here!"
"How—where to? It's still too early to go to town."
"No. Travel or something like that."
"Travel," murmured the solicitor, stretching himself. "I dream of it myself, but where shall
