awful."

"You seem to feel you need to be forgiven."

"Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't
attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have
deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for
a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a
flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I
know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I
have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There
must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to
live! To live, to live! . . . I was fired by curiosity . . . you
don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself;
something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my
husband I was ill, and came here. . . . And here I have been walking
about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; . . . and now I
have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise."

Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the
naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for
the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or
playing a part.

"I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"

She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.

"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you . . ." she said. "I love a
pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I