rity confess to was that living so long in Moscow, a life of
nothing but conversation, eating and drinking, he was
degenerating. They talked till three o'clock in the morning.
Only at three o'clock were they sufficiently reconciled to be
able to go to sleep.

Chapter 12

After taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but
began walking up and down the room. She had unconsciously the
whole evening done her utmost to arouse in Levin a feeling of
love--as of late she had fallen into doing with all young men--
and she knew she had attained her aim, as far as was possible in
one evening, with a married and conscientious man. She liked him
indeed extremely, and, in spite of the striking difference, from
the masculine point of view, between Vronsky and Levin, as a
woman she saw something they had in common, which had made Kitty
able to love both. Yet as soon as he was out of the room, she
ceased to think of him.

One thought, and one only, pursued her in different forms, and
refused to be shaken off. "If I have so much effect on others,
on this man, who loves his home and his wife, why is it _he_ is
so cold to me?...not cold exactly, he loves me, I know that! But
something new is drawing us apart now. Why wasn't he here all
the evening? He told Stiva to say he could not leave Yashvin,
and must watch over his play. Is Yashvin a child? But supposing
it's true. He never tells a lie. But there's something else in
it if it's true. He is glad of an opportunity of showing me that
he has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But why
prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for me is
not to interfere with his freedom. But I need no proofs, I need
love. He ought to understand all the bitterness of this life for
me here in Moscow. Is this life? I am not living, but waiting
for an event, which is continually put off and put off. No
answer again! And Stiva says he cannot go to Alexey
Alexandrovitch. And I can't write again. I can do nothing, can
begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait,
inventing amusements for myself--the English family, writing,
reading--but it's all nothing but a sham, it's all the same as
morphine. He ought to feel for me," she said, feeling tears of
self-pity coming into her eyes.

She heard Vronsky's abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears--
not only dried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a
book, affecting composure. She