Either because of the outburst or for some other reason, Olga
Mihalovna was suddenly aware of a terrible weakness all over,
especially in her legs and in her shoulders. She felt she could not
bear to speak, to listen, or to move.

"Grigory," she said faintly and with an effort, "when you have to
serve tea or anything, please don't appeal to me, don't ask me
anything, don't speak of anything. . . . Do it all yourself, and
. . . and don't make a noise with your feet, I entreat you. . . . I
can't, because . . ."

Without finishing, she walked on towards the croquet lawn, but on
the way she thought of the ladies, and turned towards the
raspberry-bushes. The sky, the air, and the trees looked gloomy
again and threatened rain; it was hot and stifling. An immense flock
of crows, foreseeing a storm, flew cawing over the garden. The paths
were more overgrown, darker, and narrower as they got nearer the
kitchen garden. In one of them, buried in a thick tangle of wild
pear, crab-apple, sorrel, young oaks, and hopbine, clouds of tiny
black flies swarmed round Olga Mihalovna. She covered her face with
her hands and began forcing herself to think of the little creature
. . . . There floated through her imagination the figures of Grigory,
Mitya, Kolya, the faces of the peasants who had come in the morning
to present their congratulations.

She heard footsteps, and she opened her eyes. Uncle Nikolay Nikolaitch
was coming rapidly towards her.

"It's you, dear? I am very glad . . ." he began, breathless. "A
couple of words. . . ." He mopped with his handkerchief his red