"It is time to define our relations," he thought. "I will give it
her; what is to be will be."

He took out the letter and gave it her.

"Read it. It concerns you."

Saying this, he went into his own room and lay down on the sofa in
the dark without a pillow. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna read the letter,
and it seemed to her as though the ceiling were falling and the
walls were closing in on her. It seemed suddenly dark and shut in
and terrible. She crossed herself quickly three times and said:

"Give him peace, O Lord . . . give him peace. . . ."

And she began crying.

"Vanya," she called. "Ivan Andreitch!"

There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky had come in and was
standing behind her chair, she sobbed like a child, and said:

"Why did you not tell me before that he was dead? I wouldn't have
gone to the picnic; I shouldn't have laughed so horribly. . . . The
men said horrid things to me. What a sin, what a sin! Save me,
Vanya, save me. . . . I have been mad. . . . I am lost. . . ."

Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt stifled and his heart was beating
violently. In his misery he got up, stood in the middle of the room,
groped his way in the dark to an easy-chair by the table, and sat