All this may be fantastic enough, I only know that it was sufficiently real to me during that winter of 1916 to be ever at the back of my mind; and I believe that some sense of that kind had in all sober reality something to do with that strange weight of uneasy anticipation that we all of us, yes, the most unimaginative amongst us, felt at this time. Upon this afternoon when I went to pay my call on Vera Michailovna, the real snow began to fall. We had had the false preliminary attempt a fortnight before; now in the quiet persistent determination, the solid soft resilience beneath one's feet, and the patient aquiescence of roofs and bridges and cobbles one knew that the real winter had come. Already, although it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, there was darkness, with the strange almost metallic glow as of the light from an inverted looking-glass that snow makes upon the air. I had not far to go, but the long stretch of the Ekateringofsky Canal was black and gloomy and desolate, repeating here and there the pale yellow reflection of some lamp, but for the most part dim and dead, with the hulks of barges lying like sleeping monsters on its surface. As I turned into Anglisky Prospect I found stretched like a black dado, far down the street, against the wall, a queue of waiting women. They would be there until the early morning, many of them, and it was possible that then the bread would not be sufficient. And this not from any real lack, but simply from the mistakes of a bungling, peculating Government. No wonder that one's heart was heavy. I found Vera Michailovna to my relief alone. When Sacha brought me into the room she was doing what I think I had never seen her do before, sitting unoccupied, her eyes staring in front of her, her hands folded on her lap. "I don't believe that I've ever caught you idle before, Vera Michailovna," I said. "Oh, I'm glad you've come!" She caught my hand with an eagerness very different from her usual calm, quiet greeting. "Sit down. It's an extraordinary thing. At that very moment I was wishing for you." "What is it I can do for you?" I asked. "You know that I would do anything for you." "Yes, I know that you would. But--well. You can't help me because I don't know what's the matter with me." "That's very unlike you," I said. "Yes, I know it is--and perhaps that's why I am frightened. It's so vague; and you know I long ago determined that if I couldn't define a trouble and have it there in front of me, so that I could strangle it--why I wouldn't bother about it. But those things are so easy to say."