" She
showed a flash of interest, turning to me and looking at me for the
first time since I had come in.
"Ivan Andreievitch, what do you stay in Russia for? Why don't you go
back to England?"
I was taken by surprise. I stammered, "Why do I stay? Why,
because--because I like it."
"You can't like it. There's _nothing_ to like in Russia."
"There's _everything_!" I answered. "And I have friends here," I added.
But she didn't answer that, and continued to sit staring out at the
trees. We talked a little more about nothing at all, and then there was
another long pause. At last I could endure it no longer, I jumped to my
feet.
"Vera Michailovna," I cried, "what have I done?"
"Done?" she asked me with a look of self-conscious surprise. "What do
you mean?"
"You know what I mean well enough," I answered. I tried to speak firmly,
but my voice trembled a little. "You told me I was your friend. When I
was ill the other day you came to me and said that you needed help and
that you wanted me to help you. I said that I would--"
I paused.
"Well?" she said, in a hard, unrelenting voice.
"Well--" I hesitated and stammered, cursing myself for my miserable
cowardice.
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