Foma’s irritation against her was growing stronger and stronger, and as he went on speaking to her, his words became absurd. While he spoke, he kept on moving his shoulders as though tearing something that entangled him. “Sorry? What for? I do not need it. Eh, I cannot speak well! It is bad to be dumb. But--I would have told you! You did not treat me properly--indeed, why have you so enticed a man? Am I a plaything for you?” “I only wanted to see you by my side,” said the woman simply, in a guilty voice. He did not hear these words. “And when it came to the point, you were frightened and you shut yourself off from me. You began to repent. Ha, ha! Life is bad! And why are you always complaining of some life? What life? Man is life, and except man there is no life. You have invented some other monster. You have done this to deceive the eye, to justify yourself. You do some mischief, you lose yourself in different inventions and foolishnesses and then you sigh! Ah, life! Oh, life! And have you not done it yourself? And covering yourself with complaints, you confuse others. You have lost your way, very well, but why do you want to lead me astray? Is it wickedness that speaks in you: ‘I feel bad,’ you say, ‘let him also feel bad--there, I’ll besprinkle his heart with my poisonous tears!’ Isn’t that so? Eh! God has given you the beauty of an angel, but your heart--where is it?” Standing before her, he trembled in every limb, and examined her from head to foot with reproachful looks. Now his words came freely from his heart, he spoke not loud, but with power and pleasure. Her head raised, the woman stared into his face, with wide-open eyes. Her lips were trembling and deep wrinkles appeared at the corners of her mouth. “A beautiful person should lead a good life. While of you they say things.” Foma’s voice broke down; he raised his hand and concluded in a dull voice: “Goodbye!” “Goodbye!” said Medinskaya, softly. He did not give her his hand, but, turning abruptly, he walked away from her. But already at the door he felt that he was sorry for her, and he glanced at her across his shoulder. There, in the corner, she stood alone, her head bent, her hands hanging motionless. Understanding that he could not leave her thus, he became confused, and said softly, but without repenting: “Perhaps I said something offensive--forgive me! For after all I love you,” and he heaved a deep sigh. The woman burst into soft, nervous laughter. “No, you have not offended me. God speed you.” “Well, then goodbye!” repeated Foma in a still lower voice. “Yes,” replied the woman, also in a low voice. Foma pushed aside the strings of beads with his hand; they swung back noisily and touched his cheeks. He shuddered at this cold touch and went out, carrying away a heavy, perplexed feeling in his breast, with his heart beating as though a soft but strong net were cast over it.