Don Quixote

back again to
heat, the same flitting of the same faces in the half-murk, and the
same voices; and then Anna began to read, and to grasp what she
read. Annushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by
her broad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna
read and grasped the sense, yet it was annoying to her to read- that
is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She had too
great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the
novel were nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps
about his sickroom; if she read of a member of Parliament delivering a
speech, she longed to deliver it; if she read of how Lady Mary had
ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had
surprised everyone by her daring- she, too, longed to be doing the
same. But there was no chance of doing anything; and, her little hands
toying with the smooth paper knife, she forced herself to read.
The hero of the novel was already beginning to attain his English
happiness, a baronetcy, and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire
to go with him to his estate, when she suddenly felt that he ought
to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But
what was it he was ashamed of? "What have I to be ashamed of?" she
asked herself in injured surprise. She abandoned the book and sank
against the back of her chair, tightly gripping the paper knife in
both hands. There was nothing to be ashamed of. She went over all
her Moscow recollections. All were fine, pleasant. She recalled the
ball, recalled Vronsky and his enamored, submissive face; she recalled
all her conduct with him- there was nothing shameful. Yet, with all
that, at this very point in her reminiscences, the feeling of shame
was intensified, as though some inner voice, precisely here, when
she recalled Vronsky, were saying to her: "Warm, very warm- hot!"
"Well, what is it?" she said to herself resolutely, shifting on her
seat. "What does it mean? Am I afraid to look at this without
blinking? Well, what is it? Can it be that between me and this
boy-officer there exist, or can exist, any other relations than such
as are common with every acquaintance?" She laughed contemptuously and
took up her book again; but now she was absolutely unable to make
sense of what she read. She passed the paper knife over the
windowpane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and
almost laughed aloud at the unreasoning joy that all at once possessed
her. She felt that her nerves, like strings, were being tautened
more and more upon some kind of tightening peg. She felt her eyes
opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously,
something within stopping her breathing, while all images and sounds
seemed