, a third, with an air as if it had only just come
to her by inspiration, emphasising it by the use of her wonderful eyes!
She understands herself very well--she is fully conscious of looking
like a Madonna, and knows that she does not love a living soul! She
pretends to be forever worrying over Kolia, when in reality does nothing
but talk about him with clever people. She does not wish harm to any
one... is all kindness, but let every bone in your body be broken before
her very eyes... and she wouldn't care a straw! She would not move
a finger to save you, and if by any chance it should happen to be
necessary or useful to her...then heaven have mercy on you...."

Mariana ceased. Her wrath was choking her. She could not contain
herself, and had resolved on giving full vent to it, but words failed
her. Mariana belonged to a particular class of unfortunate beings, very
plentiful in Russia, whom justice satisfies, but does not rejoice, while
injustice, against which they are very sensitive, revolts them to their
innermost being. All the time she was speaking, Nejdanov watched her
intently. Her flushed face, her short, untidy hair, the tremulous
twitching of her thin lips, struck him as menacing, significant, and
beautiful. A ray of sunlight, broken by a net of branches, lay across
her forehead like a patch of gold. And this tongue of fire seemed to
be in keeping with the keen expression of her face, her fixed wide-open
eyes, the earnest sound of her voice.

"Tell me why you think me unhappy," Nejdanov observed at last. "Do you
know anything about me?

"Yes."

"What do you know? Has anyone been talking to you about me?

"I know about your birth."

"Who told you?

"Why, Valentina Mihailovna, of course, whom you admire so much.
She mentioned in my presence, just in passing you know, but quite
intentionally, that there was a very interesting incident in your life.
She was not condoling the fact, but merely mentioned it as a person of
advanced views who is above prejudice. You need not be surprised; in the
same way she tells every visitor that comes that my father was sent
to Siberia for taking bribes. However much she may think herself an
aristocrat, she is nothing more than a mere scandal-monger and a poser.
That is your Sistine Madonna!"

"Why is she mine in particular?"

Mariana turned away and resumed her walk down the path.

"Because you had such a long conversation together," she said, a lump
rising in her t