intend going?' Litvinov said in the same voice.
'First to Dresden, then probably to Russia.'
'But what can you want to know that for now, Grigory Mihalitch?' . . . cried Kapitolina Markovna.
'Aunt, aunt,' Tatyana interposed again. A brief silence followed.
'Tatyana Petrovna,' began Litvinov, 'you know how agonisingly painful and bitter my feelings must be at this instant.'
Tatyana got up.
'Grigory Mihalitch,' she said, 'we will not talk about that . . . if you please, I beg you for my sake, if not for your own. I have known you long enough, and I can very well imagine what you must be feeling now. But what's the use of talking, of touching a sore' (she stopped; it was clear she wanted to stem the emotion rushing upon her, to swallow the rising tears; she succeeded)—'why fret a sore we cannot heal? Leave that to time. And now I have to ask a service of you, Grigory Mihalitch; if you will be so good, I will give you a letter directly: take it to the post yourself, it is rather important, but aunt and I have no time now. . . . I shall be much obliged to you. Wait a minute. ... I will bring it directly. . . .'
In the doorway Tatyana glanced uneasily at