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tentively. Bersenyev, too, was thrown into perplexity during the evening: he had expected to see Elena more gloomy. Happily for her, an argument sprang up about art between him and Shubin; she moved apart and heard their voices as it were through a dream. By degrees, not only they, but the whole room, everything surrounding her, seemed like a dream--everything: the samovar on the table, and Uvar Ivanovitch's short waistcoat, and Zoya's polished finger-nails, and the portrait in oils of the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovitch on the wall; everything retreated, everything was wrapped in mist, everything ceased to exist. Only she felt sorry for them all. 'What are they living for?' she thought. 'Are you sleepy, Lenotchka?' her mother asked her. She did not hear the question. 'A half untrue insinuation, do you say?' These words, sharply uttered by Shubin, suddenly awakened Elena's attention. 'Why,' he continued, 'the whole sting lies in that. A true insinuation makes one wretched--that's unchristian--and to an untrue insinuation a man is indifferent--that's stupid, but at a half true one he feels vexed and impatient. For instance, if I say that Elena Nikolaevna is in love with one of us, what sort of insinuation would that be, eh?' 'Ah, Monsieur Paul,' said Elena, 'I should like to show myself vexed, but really I can't. I am so tired.' 'Why don't you go to bed?' observed Anna Vassilyevna, who was always drowsy in the evening herself, and consequently always eager to send the others to bed. 'Say good-night to me, and go in God's name; Andrei Petrovitch will excuse you.' Elena kissed her mother, bowed to all and went away. Shubin accompanied her to the door. 'Elena Nikolaevna,' he whispered to her in the doorway, 'you trample on Monsieur Paul, you mercilessly walk over him, but Monsieur Paul blesses you and your little feet, and the slippers on your little feet, and the soles of your little slippers.' Elena shrugged her shoulders, reluctantly held out her hand to him--not the one Insarov had kissed--and going up to her room, at once undressed, got into bed, and fell asleep. She slept a deep, unstirring sleep, as even children rarely sleep--the sleep of a child convalescent after sickness, when its mother sits near its cradle and watches it, and listens to its breathing. XX 'Come to my room for a minute,' Shubin said to Bersenyev, directly the latter had taken leave of Anna Vassilyevna: 'I have someth
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