With the dull bewilderment of a man who has just begun to understand that someone has bitterly offended him, the doctor shrugged his shoulders, waved his hands and not knowing what to say or do, dropped exhausted into a chair. “Well, she didn’t love me any more. She loved another man. Very well. But why the deceit, why this foul treachery?” Aboguin spoke with tears in his voice. “Why, why? What have I done to you? Listen, doctor,” he said passionately approaching Kirilov. “You were the unwilling witness of my misfortune, and I am not going to hide the truth from you. I swear I loved this woman. I loved her with devotion, like a slave. I sacrificed everything for her. I broke with my family, I gave up the service and my music. I forgave her things I could not have forgiven my mother and sister.... I never once gave her an angry look ... I never gave her any cause. Why this lie then? I do not demand love, but why this abominable deceit? If you don’t love any more then speak out honestly, above all when you know what I feel about this matter....” With tears in his eyes and trembling in all his bones, Aboguin was pouring out his soul to the doctor. He spoke passionately, pressing both hands to his heart. He revealed all the family secrets without hesitation, as though he were glad that these secrets were being torn from his heart. Had he spoken thus for an hour or two and poured out all his soul, he would surely have been easier. Who can say whether, had the doctor listened and given him friendly sympathy, he would not, as so often happens, have been reconciled to his grief unprotesting, without turning to unprofitable follies? But it happened otherwise. While Aboguin was speaking the offended doctor changed countenance visibly. The indifference and amazement in his face gradually gave way to an expression of bitter outrage, indignation, and anger. His features became still sharper, harder, and more forbidding. When Aboguin put before his eyes the photograph of his young wife, with a pretty, but dry, inexpressive face like a nun’s, and asked if it were possible to look at that face and grant that it could express a lie, the doctor suddenly started away, with flashing eyes, and said, coarsely forging out each several word: “Why do you tell me all this? I do not want to hear! I don’t want to,” he cried and banged his fist upon the table. “I don’t want your trivial vulgar secrets--to Hell with them. You dare not tell me such trivialities. Or do you think I have not yet been insulted enough! That I’m a lackey to whom you can give the last insult? Yes?” Aboguin drew back from Kirilov and stared at him in surprise.