ked at them and
walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too.
They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the
glow of dawn.

"There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence.

"Yes. It's time to go home."

They went back to the town.

Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched
and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained
that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the
same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that
he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or
gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to
him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses
in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's
seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual
passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people,
made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she
was, how fascinating. He was impatiently passionate, he would not
move a step away from her, while she was often pensive and continually
urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did not love her
in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman.
Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town,
to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a
success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful.

They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from
him, saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he
entreated his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna
Sergeyevna made haste to go.

"It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. "It's the
finger of destiny!"

She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole
day. When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when
the second bell had rung, she said:

"Let me look at you once more . . . look at you once again. That's
right."

She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her
face was quivering.

"I shall remember you . . . think of you," she said. "God be with
you; be happy. Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever
--it must be so, for we ought never to have met. Well, God be with
you."

The train moved off rapidly, its lights soon vanished from sight,
and a minute later there was no sound