she had felt then. Then she had given herself up to him. She had submitted, and simply waited for what he would say to her. Now she pitied him, and thought of nothing but how to comfort him.
'What is it, dear?' she said. 'What are you crying for? Surely not because you came home in rather . . . a strange state! That can't be! Or are you sorry for Markelov, and afraid for me and you? Or are you grieving for our shattered hopes? You didn't expect everything to run smoothly, you know!'
Nezhdanov suddenly raised his head.
'No, Marianna,' he said, gulping down his sobs, 'I'm not afraid for you nor for myself.. . . But yes . . . I am sorry———'
'For whom?'
'For you, Marianna! I'm sorry you have bound up your life with a man unworthy of it.'
'Why so?'
'Well, if only because he can be shedding tears at such a moment!'
'It's not you weeping; it's your nerves!'
'My nerves and I are all one! Come, Marianna, look me in the face: can you really say now that you don't regret. . .'
'What?'
'That you ran away with me?'
'No.'
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