You've known Semyonov for
years. You can explain. What's it all about, and what's he trying to do
to Markovitch?"
"I can scarcely think what to tell you," I said at last. "I don't really
know much about Semyonov, and my guesses will probably strike you as
insane."
"No, they won't," said Bohun. "I've learnt a bit lately."
"Semyonov," I said, "is a deep-dyed sensualist. All his life he's
thought about nothing but gratifying his appetites. That's simple
enough--there are plenty of that type everywhere. But unfortunately for
him he's a very clever man, and like every Russian both a cynic and an
idealist--a cynic in facts _because_ he's an idealist. He got everything
so easily all through his life that his cynicism grew and grew. He had
wealth and women and position. He was as strong as a horse. Every 'one
gave way to him and he despised everybody. He went to the Front, and one
day came across a woman different from any other whom he had ever
known."
"How different?" asked Bohun, because I paused.
"Different in that she was simpler and naiver and honester and better
and more beautiful--"
"Better than Vera?" Bohun asked.
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