Moreover, Markovitch is a Russian and a peculiar one at
that. Finally, remember that I want Vera Michailovna to be happy quite
as much as you do!"
He was suddenly grave and almost boyish in his next words.
"I know that--you're a decent chap, Durward--I know it's hard to believe
me, but I just ask you to wait and test me. No one knows of this--that
I'd swear--and no one shall; but what's the matter with her, Durward,
what's she afraid of? That's why I spoke to you. You know her, and I'll
throttle you here where we stand if you don't tell me just what the
trouble is. I don't care for confidences or anything of the sort. You
must break them all and tell me--"
His hand was on my arm again, his big ugly face, now grim and obstinate,
close against mine.
"I'll tell you," I said slowly, "all I know, which is almost nothing.
The trouble is Semyonov, the doctor. Why or how I can't say, although
I've seen enough of him in the past to know the trouble he _can_ be.
She's afraid of him, and Markovitch is afraid of him. He likes playing
on people's nerves. He's a bitter, disappointed man, who loved
desperately once, as only real sensualists can.
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