"You have taken to having secrets from me of late: that's not right."

"Why is it not right?" answered Pyotr Dmitritch drily and not at
once. "We all have our personal life, every one of us, and we are
bound to have our secrets."

"Personal life, our secrets . . . that's all words! Understand you
are wounding me!" said Olga Mihalovna, sitting up in bed. "If you
have a load on your heart, why do you hide it from me? And why do
you find it more suitable to open your heart to women who are nothing
to you, instead of to your wife? I overheard your outpourings to
Lubotchka by the bee-house to-day."

"Well, I congratulate you. I am glad you did overhear it."

This meant "Leave me alone and let me think." Olga Mihalovna was
indignant. Vexation, hatred, and wrath, which had been accumulating
within her during the whole day, suddenly boiled over; she wanted
at once to speak out, to hurt her husband without putting it off
till to-morrow, to wound him, to punish him. . . . Making an effort
to control herself and not to scream, she said:

"Let me tell you, then, that it's all loathsome, loathsome, loathsome!
I've been hating you all day; you see what you've done."

Pyotr Dmitritch, too, got up and sat on the bed.

"It's loathsome, loathsome, loathsome," Olga Mihalovna went on,
beginning to tremble all over. "There's no need to congratulate me;