‘You see,’ she began again, ‘it seemed as though at Katia’s birth it had been decreed that she was to be unhappy. From her early years she was convinced of it. She would lean her head on her hand, sink into thought, and say, “I shall not live long!” She used to have presentiments. Imagine! she used to see beforehand, sometimes in a dream and sometimes awake, what was going to happen to her! “If I can’t live as I want to live, then I won’t live,”... was a saying of hers too.... “Our life’s in our own hands, you know.” And she proved that!’ Anna hid her face in her hands and stopped speaking. ‘Anna Semyonovna,’ Aratov began after a short pause, ‘you have perhaps heard to what the newspapers ascribed ... “To an unhappy love affair?”’ Anna broke in, at once pulling away her hands from her face. ‘That’s a slander, a fabrication!... My pure, unapproachable Katia ... Katia!... and unhappy, unrequited love? And shouldn’t I have known of it?... Every one was in love with her ... while she ... And whom could she have fallen in love with here? Who among all the people here, who was worthy of her? Who was up to the standard of honesty, truth, purity ... yes, above all, of purity which she, with all her faults, always held up as an ideal before her?... She repulsed!... she!...’ Anna’s voice broke.... Her fingers were trembling. All at once she flushed crimson ... crimson with indignation, and for that instant, and that instant only, she was like her sister. Aratov was beginning an apology. ‘Listen,’ Anna broke in again. ‘I have an intense desire that you should not believe that slander, and should refute it, if possible! You want to write an article or something about her: that’s your opportunity for defending her memory! That’s why I talk so openly to you. Let me tell you; Katia left a diary ...’ Aratov trembled. ‘A diary?’ he muttered. ‘Yes, a diary ... that is, only a few pages. Katia was not fond of writing ... for months at a time she would write nothing, and her letters were so short. But she was always, always truthful, she never told a lie.... She, with her pride, tell a lie! I ... I will show you this diary! You shall see for yourself whether there is the least hint in it of any unhappy love affair!’ Anna quickly took out of a table-drawer a thin exercise-book, ten pages, no more, and held it out to Aratov. He seized it eagerly, recognised the irregular sprawling handwriting, the handwriting of that anonymous letter, opened it at random, and at once lighted upon the following lines. ‘Moscow, Tuesday ... June.--Sang and recited at a literary matinée. To-day is a vital day for me. _It must decide my fate._ (These words were twice underlined.) I saw again....’ Here followed a few lines carefully erased. And then, ‘No! no! no!.... Must go back to the old way, if only ...’ Aratov dropped the hand that held the diary, and his head slowly sank upon his breast.