pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice;
it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about
it."

"Tell me, I beg you."

"I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no
illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound
to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't
help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under
his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking
at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of
course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I
should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate
friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was
right or wrong."

"Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.

"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am
lonely. That's how it happens to be. . . . Lonely people read a
great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is
mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is
not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."

"Do you read a great deal?"

"Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I
read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts
there are shadows in it."