The door of Liza's room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair
beside her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and
wrapped in a shawl. The blinds were down on the windows.

"How do you feel?" asked Korolyov.

"Well, thank you."

He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen
over her forehead.

"You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside.
It's spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark
and think of something."

She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and
intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him.

"Does this happen to you often?" he said.

She moved her lips, and answered:

"Often, I feel wretched almost every night."

At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock.
They heard: "Dair . . . dair . . ." and she shuddered.

"Do those knockings worry you?" he asked.

"I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and