more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting,
domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when
Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the
lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of
inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of
consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door.
The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna--"the lady with the dog"--to
what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it
were her fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate.
Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair
hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the
woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture.

"It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now."

There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and
began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour
of silence.

Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a
good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle
burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was
clear that she was very unhappy.

"How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you
are saying."

"God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's