“Let us admit that I struggled,” she thought, “but what kind of a fight was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, and still they do sell themselves. It’s a pretty sort of fight. Like milk, turns in a day.” She realised that it was not love that drew her from her home nor Ilyin’s personality, but the sensations which await her.... A little week-end _type_ like the rest of them. “When the young bird’s mother was killed,” a hoarse tenor finished singing. If I am going, it’s time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to beat with a frightful force. “Andrey,” she almost cried. “Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?” “Yes.... I’ve told you already. You go alone.” “But listen,” she said, “if you don’t come too, you may lose me. I seem to be in love already.” “Who with?” Andrey Ilyitch asked. “It must be all the same for you, who with,” Sophia Pietrovna cried out. Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with a look of surprise at the dark form of his wife. “Imagination,” he yawned. He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more than half of them belong to people who have never known misery. In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy husband: “Are you asleep? I’m going for a little walk. Would you like to come with me?” That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but walked on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to her that if she stopped that power would push her in the back. “You’re an immoral woman,” she murmured mechanically. “You’re horrible.” She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame, her reason, her fear.... AFTER THE THEATRE Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, where they had been to see a performance of “Eugene Oniegin.” Entering her room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat down hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in the style of Tatiana. “I love you,”--she wrote--“but you don’t love me; no, you don’t!” The moment she had written this, she smiled.