believe that it is you. Come, come, don't be angry, don't be angry,"
she went on, kissing his hands, frightened of her own words. "You
are clever, kind, noble. You will be just to father. He is so good."

"He is not good; he is just good-natured. Burlesque old uncles like
your father, with well-fed, good-natured faces, extraordinarily
hospitable and queer, at one time used to touch me and amuse me in
novels and in farces and in life; now I dislike them. They are
egoists to the marrow of their bones. What disgusts me most of all
is their being so well-fed, and that purely bovine, purely hoggish
optimism of a full stomach."

Tanya sat down on the bed and laid her head on the pillow.

"This is torture," she said, and from her voice it was evident that
she was utterly exhausted, and that it was hard for her to speak.
"Not one moment of peace since the winter. . . . Why, it's awful!
My God! I am wretched."

"Oh, of course, I am Herod, and you and your father are the innocents.
Of course."

His face seemed to Tanya ugly and unpleasant. Hatred and an ironical
expression did not suit him. And, indeed, she had noticed before
that there was something lacking in his face, as though ever since
his hair had been cut his face had changed, too. She wanted to say
something wounding to him, but immediately she caught herself in
this antagonistic feeling, she was frightened and went out of the
bedroom.