him on his pillow and under the counterpane, and he tossed in misery from side to side. A slight delirium had already begun to creep over him; already the priest, 'the master against witchcraft' had twice run across his road in the guise of a.very playful hare with a beard and a pig-tail, and Voroshilov was trilling before him, sitting in a huge general's plumed cock-hat like a nightingale in a bush. . . . When suddenly he jumped out of bed, and clasping his hands, cried, 'Can it be she? it can't be!'
But to explain this exclamation of Litvinov's we must beg the indulgent reader to go back a few years with us.