"Just the same!"--she replied;--"neither better nor worse.--Emptiness, frightful emptiness!"--she added, dejectedly raising her eyes. Bizmyónkoff made no reply. "What think you," she went on;--"will he write to me again?" "I think not, Lizavéta Kiríllovna!" She remained silent for a while. "And, in fact, what is there for him to write about? He told me everything in his first letter. I could not be his wife; but I was happy ... not for long.... I was happy...." Bizmyónkoff lowered his eyes. "Akh,"--she went on with animation;--"if you only knew how loathsome that Tchulkatúrin is to me!... It always seems to me that I can see ..... his blood ... on that man's hands." (I writhed behind my crack.) "However,"--she added thoughtfully;--"who knows,--perhaps had it not been for that duel .... Akh, when I beheld him wounded, I immediately felt that I was all his." "Tchulkatúrin loves you,"--remarked Bizmyónkoff. "What do I care for that? Do I need any one's love?..." She paused, and added slowly: ... "except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is indispensable to me: without you I should have perished. You have helped me to endure terrible moments...." She ceased.... Bizmyónkoff began to stroke her hand with paternal tenderness. "There 's no help for it, there 's no help for it, Lizavéta Kiríllovna,"--he repeated, several times in succession. "Yes, and now,"--she said dully,--"I think I should die if it were not for you. You alone sustain me; moreover, you remind me .... For you know everything. Do you remember how handsome he was that day?.... But forgive me: it must be painful for you...." "Speak, speak! What do you mean? God bless you!"--Bizmyónkoff interrupted her. She squeezed his hand. "You are very kind, Bizmyónkoff,"--she went on:--"you are as kind as an angel. What am I to do? I feel that I shall love him until I die. I have forgiven him, I am grateful to him. May God grant him happiness! May God give him a wife after his own heart!"--And her eyes filled with tears.--"If only he does not forget me, if only he will now and then recall his Liza to mind. Let us go out,"--she added, after a brief pause. Bizmyónkoff raised her hand to his lips. "I know,"--she began with warmth,--"every one is blaming me, every one is casting stones at me now. Let them! All the same, I would not exchange my unhappiness for their happiness ... no! no!... He did not love me long, but he did love me! He never deceived me: he did not tell me that I was to be his wife; I myself never thought of such a thing. Only poor papa hoped for that. And now I am still not utterly unhappy: there remains to me the memory, and however terrible the consequences may be .... I am stifling here .... it was here that I saw him for the last time.... Let us go out into the air."