coast, always expecting something better. Was that life?

"I ought to be married though," she thought, but remembering Kirilin
and Atchmianov she flushed and said:

"No, it's impossible. Even if Ivan Andreitch begged me to on his
knees--even then I would refuse."

Marya Konstantinovna sat on the sofa for a minute in silence, grave
and mournful, gazing fixedly into space; then she got up and said
coldly:

"Good-bye, my dear! Forgive me for having troubled you. Though it's
not easy for me, it's my duty to tell you that from this day all
is over between us, and, in spite of my profound respect for Ivan
Andreitch, the door of my house is closed to you henceforth."

She uttered these words with great solemnity and was herself
overwhelmed by her solemn tone. Her face began quivering again; it
assumed a soft almond-oily expression. She held out both hands to
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who was overcome with alarm and confusion,
and said in an imploring voice:

"My dear, allow me if only for a moment to be a mother or an elder
sister to you! I will be as frank with you as a mother."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna felt in her bosom warmth, gladness, and pity
for herself, as though her own mother had really risen up and were
standing before her. She impulsively embraced Marya Konstantinovna
and pressed her face to her shoulder. Both of them shed tears. They