in the atmosphere."

"And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father?"

He explained that, too. He talked, thinking all the while that he
was going to see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably
never would know. He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by
all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative
falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances;
and another life running its course in secret. And through some
strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything
that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in
which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that
made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all
that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal
the truth--such, for instance, as his work in the bank, his
discussions at the club, his "lower race," his presence with his
wife at anniversary festivities--all that was open. And he judged
of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always
believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under
the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal
life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account
that civilised man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy
should be respected.

After leaving his daughter at school, Gurov went on to the Slaviansky
Bazaar. He took off his fur coat below, went upstairs, and softly
knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey
dress, exhausted by the journey and the suspense, had been expecting
him since the evening before. She was pale; she looked at him, and