limbs. He got up, stood still on the spot, and sat down again, again read through the paragraph. Then he got up again, lay down on the bed, and clasping his hands behind, stared a long while at the wall, as though dazed. By degrees the wall seemed to fade away . . . vanished . . . and he saw facing him the boulevard under the grey sky, and her in her black cape . . . then her on the platform . . . saw himself even close by her. That something which had given him such a violent blow in the chest at the first instant, began mounting now . . . mounting into his throat. . . . He tried to clear his throat; tried to call some one — but his voice failed him — and, to his own astonishment, tears rushed in torrents from his eyes . . . what called forth these tears? Pity? Remorse? Or was it simply his nerves could not stand the sudden shock?
Why, she was nothing to him? was she?
'But, perhaps, it's not true after all,' the thought came as a sudden relief to him. 'I must find out! But from whom? From the princess? No, from Kupfer . . . from Kupfer? But they say he's not in Moscow — no matter, I must try him first!'
With these reflections in his head, Aratov dressed himself in haste, called a cab and drove to Kupfer's.
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