asure. 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.

It was night by this time; the moon was shining and the frost covered
the puddles with coatings of dull silver. Foma walked along the
sidewalk, he broke these with his cane, and they cracked mournfully. The
shadows of the houses fell on the road in black squares, and the shadows
of the trees--in wonderful patterns. And some of them looked like thin
hands, helplessly clutching the ground.

"What is she doing now?" thought Foma, picturing to himself the woman,
alone, in the corner of a narrow room, in the reddish half-light.

"It is best for me to forget her," he decided. But he could not forget
her; she stood before him, provoking in him now intense pity, now
irritation and even anger. And her image was so clear, and the thoughts
of her were so painful, as though he was carrying this woman in his
breast. A cab was coming from the opposite side, filling the silence of
the night with the jarring of the wheels on the cobble-stones and with
their creaking on the ice. When the cab was passing across a moonlit
strip, the noise was louder and more brisk, and in the shadows it was
heavier and duller. The driver and the