"In the presence of tears I can neither speak nor be silent. I was
flustered and muttered some nonsense trying to comfort her.

"'No, no; I will go to my mother's,' said Kisotchka resolutely,
getting up and clutching my arm convulsively (her hands and her
sleeves were wet with tears). 'Forgive me, Nikolay Anastasyitch, I
am going. . . . I can bear no more. . . .'

"'Kisotchka, but there isn't a single cab,' I said. 'How can you
go?'

"'No matter, I'll walk. . . . It's not far. I can't bear it. . . .'

"I was embarrassed, but not touched. Kisotchka's tears, her trembling,
and the blank expression of her face suggested to me a trivial,
French or Little Russian melodrama, in which every ounce of cheap
shallow feeling is washed down with pints of tears.

"I didn t understand her, and knew I did not understand her; I ought
to have been silent, but for some reason, most likely for fear my
silence might be taken for stupidity, I thought fit to try to
persuade her not to go to her mother's, but to stay at home. When
people cry, they don't like their tears to be seen. And I lighted
match after match and went on striking till the box was empty. What
I wanted with this ungenerous illumination, I can't conceive to
this day. Cold-hearted people are apt to be awkward, and even stupid.

"In the end Kisotchka took my arm and we set off. Going out of the
gate, we turned to the right and sauntered slowly along the soft