th. He was silent, and
his eyes rested on the wheels of the tender, slowly and smoothly
rolling along the rails.

And all at once a different pain, not an ache, but an inner
trouble, that set his whole being in anguish, made him for an
instant forget his toothache. As he glanced at the tender and
the rails, under the influence of the conversation with a friend
he had not met since his misfortune, he suddenly recalled
_her_--that is, what was left of her when he had run like one
distraught into the cloak room of the railway station--on the
table, shamelessly sprawling out among strangers, the
bloodstained body so lately full of life; the head unhurt
dropping back with its weight of hair, and the curling tresses
about the temples, and the exquisite face, with red, half-opened
mouth, the strange, fixed expression, piteous on the lips and
awful in the still open eyes, that seemed to utter that fearful
phrase--that he would be sorry for it--that she had said when
they were quarreling.

And he tried to think of her as she was when he met her the first
time, at a railway station too, mysterious, exquisite, loving,
seeking and giving happiness, and not cruelly revengeful as he
remembered her on that last moment. He tried to recall his best
moments with her, but those moments were poisoned forever. He
could only think of her as triumphant, successful in her menace
of a wholly useless remorse never to be effaced. He lost all
consciousness of toothache, and his face worked with sobs.

Passing twice up and down beside the baggage in silence and
regaining his self-possession, he addressed Sergey Ivanovitch
calmly:

"You have had no telegrams since yesterday's? Yes, driven back
for a third time, but a decisive engagement expected for
tomorrow."

And after talking a little more of King Milan's proclamation, and
the immense effect it might have, they parted, going to their
carriages on hearing the second bell.

Chapter 6

Sergey Ivanovitch had not telegraphed to his brother to send to
meet him, as he did not know when he should be able to leave
Moscow. Levin was not at home when Katavasov and Sergey
Ivanovitch in a fly hired at the station drove up to the steps of
the Pokrovskoe house, as black as Moors from the dust of the
road. Kitty, sitting on the balcony with her father and sister,
recognized her brother-in-law, and ran down to meet him.

"What a shame not to have let us know," she said, giving her hand