her arm out of mine, and said, no longer in a childish voice, but
in her own:

"'Nikolay Anastasvitch, I know all this seems strange to you. But
I am terribly unhappy! And you cannot even imagine how unhappy!
It's impossible to imagine it! I don't tell you about it because
one can't talk about it. . . . Such a life, such a life! . . .'

"Kisotchka did not finish. She clenched her teeth and moaned as
though she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain.

"'Such a life!' she repeated with horror, with the cadence and the
southern, rather Ukrainian accent which particularly in women gives
to emotional speech the effect of singing. 'It is a life! Ah, my
God, my God! what does it mean? Oh, my God, my God!'

"As though trying to solve the riddle of her fate, she shrugged her
shoulders in perplexity, shook her head, and clasped her hands. She
spoke as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded
me of a celebrated Little Russian actress.

"'Great God, it is as though I were in a pit,' she went on. 'If
one could live for one minute in happiness as other people live!
Oh, my God, my God! I have come to such disgrace that before a
stranger I am running away from my husband by night, like some
disreputable creature! Can I expect anything good after that?'

"As I admired her movements and her voice, I began to feel annoyed
that she was not on good terms with her husband. 'It would be nice
to have got on into relations with her!' flitted through my mind;