Don Quixote

tongue. The calf fumbling, poked its nose under its mother's groin,
and twirled its tiny tail.
{PART_ONE|CHAPTER_XXVI ^paragraph 10}
"Bring the light here, Fiodor- bring the lantern here," said
Levin, examining the heifer. "Like the dam! though the color takes
after the sire. A perfect beauty! Long, and broad in the haunch. Isn't
she a beauty now, Vassilii Fiodorovich?" he addressed the bailiff,
quite forgiving him for the buckwheat under the influence of his
delight in the heifer.
"What bad blood could she take after?- Semion the contractor came
the day after you left. You must settle with him, Konstantin
Dmitrich," said the bailiff. "And I have already told you about the
machine."
This matter alone was enough to bring Levin back to all the
details of his estate, which was on a large scale, and complicated. He
went straight from the cowhouse to the countinghouse, and, after a
short talk with the bailiff and Semion the contractor, he went back to
the house and straight upstairs to the drawing room.

{PART_ONE|CHAPTER_XXVII
XXVII.
-
The house was big and old-fashioned, and Levin, though he lived
alone, heated and used the whole house. He knew that this was
stupid, he knew that it was even wrong, and contrary to his present
new plans, but this house was a whole world to Levin. It was the world
in which his father and mother had lived and died. They had lived just
the life that to Levin seemed the ideal of perfection, and that he had
dreamed of renewing with his wife, with his family.
Levin scarcely remembered his mother. His conception of her was
for him a sacred memory, and his future wife was bound to be, in his
imagination, a repetition of that exquisite, holy ideal of a woman
that his mother had been.
He was so far from conceiving of love for woman apart from
marriage that he positively pictured to himself first the family,
and only secondarily the woman who would give him a family. His
ideas of marriage were, consequently, quite unlike those of the
great majority of his acquaintances, for whom getting married was
merely one of the many affairs of everyday life. For Levin it was
the chief affair of life, on which its whole happiness turned. And now
he had to give up that!
When he had gone into the second drawing room, where he always had
tea, and had settled himself in his armchair with a book, and
Agathya Mikhailovna had brought him tea, and with her usual, "Well,
I'll stay a while, my dear," had taken a chair at the window, he
felt that, however strange it might be, he had not parted from his
daydreams, and that he could not live without them. Whether with
her, or with another- it was still bound to be. He was reading his
book, pondering on what he was reading, and pausing to listen to
Agathya Mikhailovna, who gossiped away without flagging, and yet, with