bag on her knees with great, clumsy hands, clad in gloves, one of which was torn.
Anna read, and understood what she read; but it was not pleasant to her to read, in other words to enter into the lives of other people. She had too keen a desire to live herself. If she read how the heroine of her story took care of the sick, she would have liked to go with noiseless steps into the sick-room. If she read how a member of Parliament made a speech, she would have liked to make that speech. If she read how Lady Mary rode after the hounds, and made sport of her sister-in-law, and astonished every one by her audacity, she would have liked to do the same. But she could do nothing; and with her little hands she clutched the paper-cutter, and forced herself to read calmly.
The hero of her novel had reached the summit of his English ambition,—a baronetcy and an estate; and Anna felt a desire to go with him to this estate, when suddenly it seemed to her that he ought to feel a sense of shame, and that she ought to share it. But why should he feel ashamed? "Why should I feel ashamed?" she asked herself with astonishment and discontent. She closed the book, and, leaning back against the chair, held the paper-cutter tightly in both hands.
There was nothing to be ashamed of: she reviewed all her memories of her visit to Moscow; they were all pleasant and good. She remembered the ball, she remembered Vronsky and his humble and passionate face, she recalled all her relations with him; there was nothing to be ashamed of. But at the same time in these reminiscences the sense of shame kept growing stronger and stronger; and it seemed to her that inward voice, whenever she thought of Vronsky, seemed to say, "Warmly, very warmly, passionately." ....
"Well! what is this?" she asked herself resolutely, as she changed her position in the seat. "What does this mean? Am I afraid to face these memories? Well! what is it? Is there, can there be, any relationship between that boy-officer and me beyond what exists between all acquaintances?"
