When I had finished, I glanced at her. Her head leaning on the back of her low chair and her arms crossed on her bosom, she was still looking as intently at me. I don’t know why, my heart suddenly began to throb. ‘What have you done to me?’ she said in a slow voice. ‘What?’ I articulated in confusion. ‘Yes, what have you done to me?’ she repeated. ‘You mean to say,’ I began; ‘why did I persuade you to read such books?’ She rose without speaking, and went out of the room. I looked after her. On the doorway she stopped and turned to me. ‘I love you,’ she said; ‘that’s what you have done to me.’ The blood rushed to my head.… ‘I love you, I am in love with you,’ repeated Vera. She went out and shut the door after her. I will not try to describe what passed within me then. I remember I went out into the garden, made my way into a thicket, leaned against a tree, and how long I stood there, I could not say. I felt faint and numb; a feeling of bliss came over my heart with a rush from time to time.… No, I cannot speak of that. Priemkov’s voice roused me from my stupor; they had sent to tell him I had come: he had come home from shooting and was looking for me. He was surprised at finding me alone in the garden, without a hat on, and he led me into the house. ‘My wife’s in the drawing-room,’ he observed; ‘let’s go to her.’ You can imagine my sensations as I stepped through the doorway of the drawing-room. Vera was sitting in the corner, at her embroidery frame; I stole a glance at her, and it was a long while before I raised my eyes again. To my amazement, she seemed composed; there was no trace of agitation in what she said, nor in the sound of her voice. At last I brought myself to look at her. Our eyes met.… She faintly blushed, and bent over her canvas. I began to watch her. She seemed, as it were, perplexed; a cheerless smile hung about her lips now and then. Priemkov went out. She suddenly raised her head and in a rather loud voice asked me--‘What do you intend to do now?’ I was taken aback, and hurriedly, in a subdued voice, answered, that I intended to do the duty of an honest man--to go away, ‘for,’ I added, ‘I love you, Vera Nikolaevna, you have probably seen that long ago.’ She bent over her canvas again and seemed to ponder. ‘I must talk with you,’ she said; ‘come this evening after tea to our little house … you know, where you read _Faust_.’