and moved.. . . Emotion with her almost always took the form of seeming angry. 'You are probably asking yourself', she began again, 'why is this young lady telling me all this? You must have thought the same, I suppose, when I told you something . . . about Mr. Markelov?'
She suddenly stooped down, picked a small mushroom, broke it in half and flung it away.
'You are wrong, Marianna Vikentyevna,' observed Nezhdanov; 'on the contrary, I thought I had inspired you with confidence─and that idea was a very pleasant one.'
Nezhdanov was not telling quite the truth; this idea had only just entered his head.
Marianna glanced at him instantly. Up till then she had looked away persistently.
'It's not so much that you inspire confidence,' she said as though reflecting; you are completely a stranger, you see. But your position─and mine─are very much alike. We are both alike unhappy; that's a bond between us.'
'Are you unhappy?' inquired Nezhdanov.
'And you─aren't you?' answered Marianna.
He said nothing.
'Do you know my story?' she began quickly; 'the story of my father? his exile?─no? well, then, let me tell you that he was brought up,
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