“I asked you just now. . . .”
“I did not hear.”
Only now did Ogneff notice the change that had come over Vera. She was pale and breathless; her hands and lips trembled; and instead of the usual single lock of hair falling on her forehead, there were two. She did her best to mask her agitation and avoid looking him in the face; and to help in this, she first straightened her collar as if it were cutting her neck, and then drew the red shawl from one side to the other.
“You are cold, I am afraid,” began Ogneff. “You must not sit in the mist. Let me see you home.”
Vera did not answer.
“What is the matter?” resumed Ogneff. “You do not answer my questions. You are ill?”
Vera pressed her hand firmly to her cheek, and suddenly drew it away.
“It is too awful,” she whispered, with a look of intense agony. “Too awful!”
“What is too awful?” asked Ogneff, shrugging his shoulders, and making no attempt to conceal his surprise. “What is the matter?”
Still breathing heavily and twitching her shoulders. Vera turned away from him, and after looking a moment at the sky, began —
“I have to speak to you, Ivan Alexeievitch. . . .”
“I am listening.”
