of ground, she settled about the singers. Sokolov withdrew.
"I do everything myself," she said to Peter Ivanovich, pushing aside the albums lying on the table; and observing that the tobacco ash was threatening the table, she unobtrusively insinuated an ash tray close to Peter Ivanovich, without interrupting her conversation; "I should consider it hypocritical to assert that I cannot attend to practical things for sheer grief. On the contrary, if anything can, I will not say relieve, but distract my thoughts—it is this caring for him."
Again she got ready her handkerchief, as if making up her mind to weep, and suddenly, as if doing violence to herself, she shook her head and began to speak calmly.
"However, I have business to transact with you."
Peter Ivanovich bowed, without allowing free play to the springs of his cushioned seat, which immediately grew unruly beneath him.
"He suffered terribly at the last."
"Did he suffer very much?" inquired Peter Ivanovich.
"Ah, frightfully! At the last he never ceased to cry out—not for minutes, but for hours at a time. For three days in succession he cried out without any variation of voice. It was insupportable. I can't understand how I managed to stand it; we could hear him through three doors. Alas! What have I not endured!"
"But was he really conscious?" inquired Peter Ivanovich.
167
