"'No, no; I will go to my mother's,' said Kisotchka resolutely,
getting up and clutching my arm convulsively (her hands and her
sleeves were wet with tears). 'Forgive me, Nikolay Anastasyitch, I
am going. . . . I can bear no more. . . .'

"'Kisotchka, but there isn't a single cab,' I said. 'How can you
go?'

"'No matter, I'll walk. . . . It's not far. I can't bear it. . . .'

"I was embarrassed, but not touched. Kisotchka's tears, her trembling,
and the blank expression of her face suggested to me a trivial,
French or Little Russian melodrama, in which every ounce of cheap
shallow feeling is washed down with pints of tears.

"I didn t understand her, and knew I did not understand her; I ought
to have been silent, but for some reason, most likely for fear my
silence might be taken for stupidity, I thought fit to try to
persuade her not to go to her mother's, but to stay at home. When
people cry, they don't like their tears to be seen. And I lighted
match after match and went on striking till the box was empty. What
I wanted with this ungenerous illumination, I can't conceive to
this day. Cold-hearted people are apt to be awkward, and even stupid.

"In the end Kisotchka took my arm and we set off. Going out of the
gate, we turned to the right and sauntered slowly along the soft
dusty road. It was dark. As my eyes grew gradually accustomed to
the darkness, I began to distinguish the silhouettes of the old
gaunt oaks and lime trees which bordered the road. The jagged,
precipitous cliffs, intersected here and there by deep, narrow
ravines and creeks, soon showed indistinctly, a black streak on the
right. Low bushes nestled by the hollows, looking like sitting
figures. It was uncanny. I looked sideways suspiciously at the
cliffs, and the murmur of the sea and the stillness of the country
alarmed my imagination. Kisotchka did not speak. She was still
trembling, and before she had gone half a mile she was exhausted
with walking and was out of breath. I too was silent.

"Three-quarters of a mile from the Quarantine Station there was a
deserted building of four storeys, with a very high chimney in which
there had once been a steam flour mill. It stood solitary on the
cliff, and by day it could be seen for a long distance, both by sea
and by land. Because it was deserted and no one lived in it, and
because there was an echo in it which distinctly repeated the steps
and voices of passers-by, it seemed mysterious. Picture m