end it round to
the Shtcherbatskys' house, from which the young people were to
set out the same evening, he had done so, packing everything but
the dress suit. The shirt worn since the morning was crumpled
and out of the question with the fashionable open waistcoat. It
was a long way to send to the Shtcherbatskys'. They sent out to
buy a shirt. The servant came back; everything was shut up--it
was Sunday. They sent to Stepan Arkadyevitch's and brought a
shirt--it was impossibly wide and short. They sent finally to
the Shtcherbatskys' to unpack the things. The bridegroom was
expected at the church while he was pacing up and down his room
like a wild beast in a cage, peeping out into the corridor, and
with horror and despair recalling what absurd things he had said
to Kitty and what she might be thinking now.

At last the guilty Kouzma flew panting into the room with the
shirt.

"Only just in time. They were just lifting it into the van,"
said Kouzma.

Three minutes later Levin ran full speed into the corridor, not
looking at his watch for fear of aggravating his sufferings.

"You won't help matters like this," said Stepan Arkadyevitch with
a smile, hurrying with more deliberation after him. "It will
come round, it will come round...I tell you."

Chapter 4

"They've come!" "Here he is!" "Which one?" "Rather young, eh?"
"Why, my dear soul, she looks more dead than alive!" were the
comments in the crowd, when Levin, meeting his bride in the
entrance, walked with her into the church.

Stepan Arkadyevitch told his wife the cause of the delay, and the
guests were whispering it with smiles to one another. Levin saw
nothing and no one; he did not take his eyes off his bride.

Everyone said she had lost her looks dreadfully of late, and was
not nearly so pretty on her wedding day as usual; but Levin did
not think so. He looked at her hair done up high, with the long
white veil and white flowers and the high, stand-up, scalloped
collar, that in such a maidenly fashion hid her long neck at the
sides and only showed it in front, her strikingly slender figure,
and it seemed to him that she looked better than ever--not
because these flowers, this veil, this gown from Paris added
anything to her beauty; but because, in spite of the elaborate
sumptuousness of her attire, the expression of her sweet face, of
her eyes, of her lips was still her own characteristic expression
of guileless truthfulness.

"I