that the clouds recalled nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a better comparison.
'And how old was Antony then?' inquired Zinaïda.
'A young man, no doubt,' observed Malevsky.
'Yes, a young man,' Meidanov chimed in in confirmation.
'Excuse me,' cried Lushin, 'he was over forty.'
'Over forty,' repeated Zinaïda, giving him a rapid glance.. . .
I soon went home. 'She is in love,' my lips unconsciously repeated.. . . 'But with whom?'
XII
The days passed by. Zinaïda became stranger and stranger, and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting in a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table. She drew herself up . . . her whole face was wet with tears.
'Ah, you!' she said with a cruel smile. 'Come here.'
I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catching hold of my hair, began pulling it.
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