"Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov.

"No, but I feel. . . ."

She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him
so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she
trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that
she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting
for him to speak.

And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed
as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million
if she had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it
was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only
waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her.

But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men
under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same
way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much
money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they
don't give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and
if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually
embarrassing, awkward, and long.

"How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to
speak?"

And he said what he meant in a roundabout way: