"He's been. It was he noticed that the diphtheria had got into the nose. Yes … but what is Schreck? In reality, Schreck is nothing. He is Schreck, I am Korosteleff, and nothing more!"
Time stretched into eternity. Olga Ivanovna lay dressed on her unmade bed, and slumbered. She felt that the whole flat from floor to ceiling was filled with a giant block of iron, and that if the iron were only removed, all would be well again. But then she remembered that there was no iron, but only Duimoff's illness.
"Nature morte …" she thought, again losing consciousness. "Sport, kurort. … And what about Schreck? Schreck, greck, vreck, kreck. Where are my friends now? Do they know of the sorrow that has overtaken us? O Lord, save … deliver us! Schreck, greek. …"
And again the iron. Time stretched into eternity, and the clock downstairs struck innumerable times. Now and then the bell was rung. Doctors came. … In came the servant with an empty glass on a salver, and said—
"Shall I make the bed, ma'am?"
And, receiving no answer, she went out. Again the clock struck—dreams of rain on the Volga—and again some one arrived, this time, it seemed, a stranger. Olga Ivanovna started, and saw Korosteleff.
