on . . . ah, . . . that was hard! How well he did to die . . . and mother, too! But, you see, I was left behind.. . . For what? To feel that I've a bad nature, that I'm ungrateful, that nothing is right with me, and that I can do nothing─nothing for anything or anybody!'
Marianna turned away. Her hand had slid on to the garden seat. Nezhdanov felt very sorry for her; he stroked the hand . . . but Marianna at once pulled it away, not because Nezhdanov's action struck her as unsuitable, but that he might not─God forbid!─imagine she was asking for his sympathy.
Through the branches of the pines there was a glimpse of a woman's dress.
Marianna drew herself up. 'Look, your Madonna has sent her spy out. That maid has to keep watch on me and report to her mistress where I am and with whom. My aunt most likely supposed that I was with you, and thinks it improper, especially after the sentimental scene she has been rehearsing with you. And, indeed, it's time to go back. Come along.'
Marianna got up; Nezhdanov, too, rose from his seat. She glanced at him over her shoulder, and suddenly there passed over her face an expression almost childish, charming, a little embarrassed.
154
