year, seemed to hang, close and drowsy, about it. Through the clefts of the big brown rocks came strong currents of fresh air. On both sides of the path rose round hillocks covered with green moss.
'Stop!' cried Maria Nikolaevna, 'I want to sit down and rest on this velvet. Help me to get off.'
Sanin leaped off his horse and ran up to her. She leaned on both his shoulders, sprang instantly to the ground, and seated herself on one of the mossy mounds. He stood before her, holding both the horses' bridles in his hand.
She lifted her eyes to him.. . . 'Sanin, are you able to forget?'
Sanin recollected what had happened yesterday . . . in the carriage. ' What is that—a question . . . or a reproach?'
'I have never in my life reproached any one for anything. Do you believe in magic?'
'What?'
'In magic?—you know what is sung of in our ballads—our Russian peasant ballads?'
'Ah! That's what you're speaking of,' Sanin said slowly.
'Yes, that's it. I believe in it . . . and you will believe in it.'
'Magic is sorcery . . .' Sanin repeated,
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