You remember her and can talk of her. Ah, how I've hungered,
hungered, to talk to you about her! Sometimes I've come all this way and
then turned back at the door. How I've prayed that it might have been
some other who knew her, some real man, not a sentimental, gloomy old
woman like yourself, Ivan Andreievitch. And yet you have your points.
You have in you the things that she saw--you are honest, you are
brave.... You are like a good English clergyman. But she!... I should
have had some one with wit, with humour, with a sense of life about her.
All the things, all the little things--the way she walked, her clothes,
her smile--when she was cross! Ah, she was divine when she was cross!...
Ivan Andreievitch, be kind to me! Think for a moment less of your
morals, less of your principles--and talk to me of her! Talk to me of
her!"
He had drawn quite close to me; he looked like a madman--I have no doubt
that, at that moment, he was one.
"I can't!... I won't!" I answered, drawing away. "She is the most sacred
memory I have in my life. I hate to think of her with you. And that
because you smirch everything you touch.
Pages:
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531