‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Grigory Mihalitch! If I decide, if I run away, then it will at least be with a man who does it for my sake, for my sake simply, and not in order that he may not degrade himself in the good opinion of a phlegmatic young person, with milk and water, _du lait coupé_ instead of blood, in her veins! And I must tell you too, it’s the first time, I confess, that it’s been my lot to hear that the man I honour with my regard is deserving of commiseration, playing a pitiful part! I know a far more pitiful part, the part of a man who doesn’t know what is going on in his own heart!’ Litvinov drew himself up in his turn. ‘Irina,’ he was beginning---- But all at once she clapped both hands to her forehead, and with a convulsive motion, flinging herself on his breast, she embraced him with force beyond a woman’s. ‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ she began, with a shaking voice, ‘forgive me, Grigory! You see how corrupted I am, how horrid I am, how jealous and wicked! You see how I need your aid, your indulgence! Yes, save me, drag me out of this mire, before I am quite ruined! Yes, let us run away, let us run away from these people, from this society to some far off, fair, free country! Perhaps your Irina will at last be worthier of the sacrifices you are making for her! Don’t be angry with me, forgive me, my sweet, and know that I will do everything you command, I will go anywhere you will take me!’ Litvinov’s heart was in a turmoil. Irina clung closer than before to him with all her youthful supple body. He bent over her fragrant, disordered tresses, and in an intoxication of gratitude and ecstasy, he hardly dared to caress them with his hand, he hardly touched them with his lips. ‘Irina, Irina,’ he repeated,--‘my angel....’ She suddenly raised her head, listened....