tion—you know?. . . No, I ask nothing of you . . . good-bye.'
He got up and went out; Marianna did not try to keep him. Nezhdanov sat down on the sofa and hid his face in his hands. He was frightened by his own thoughts, and tried not to think. He had one feeling only, that a sort of dark, underground hand seemed to have clutched at the very root of his being, and would not let him go. He knew that that sweet, precious woman he had left in the next room would not come out to him; and he dared not go in to her. And what would be the use? What could he say?
Rapid, resolute footsteps made him open his eyes.
Solomin walked across his room, and, knocking at Marianna's door, went in.
'Make way for your betters!' muttered Nezhdanov in a bitter whisper.
185
