...
The lights are up and we are alone again in the deserted theatre.
Towards the end of the last interval I went out into the passage behind
the stalls to escape from the chastened whispering that went trembling
up and down like the hissing of terrified snakes. I leaned against the
wall in the deserted passage and watched the melancholy figure of the
cloak-room attendant huddled up on a chair, his head between his hands.
Suddenly I saw Vera. She came up to me as though she were going to walk
past me, and then she stopped and spoke. She talked fast, not looking at
me, but beyond, down the passage.
"I'm sorry, Ivan Andreievitch," she said. "I was cross the other day. I
hurt you. I oughtn't to have done that."
"You know," I said, "that I never thought of it for a minute."
"No, I was wrong. But I've been terribly worried during these last
weeks. I've thought it all out to-day and I've decided--" there was a
catch in her breath and she paused; she went on--"decided that there
mustn't be any more weakness. I'm much weaker than I thought. I would be
ashamed if I didn't think that shame was a silly thing to have.
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