sat down on the sofa and for a few minutes sobbed without looking
at one another or being able to utter a word.

"My dear child," began Marya Konstantinovna, "I will tell you some
harsh truths, without sparing you."

"For God's sake, for God's sake, do!

"Trust me, my dear. You remember of all the ladies here, I was the
only one to receive you. You horrified me from the very first day,
but I had not the heart to treat you with disdain like all the rest.
I grieved over dear, good Ivan Andreitch as though he were my son
--a young man in a strange place, inexperienced, weak, with no
mother; and I was worried, dreadfully worried. . . . My husband was
opposed to our making his acquaintance, but I talked him over . . .
persuaded him. . . . We began receiving Ivan Andreitch, and with
him, of course, you. If we had not, he would have been insulted. I
have a daughter, a son. . . . You understand the tender mind, the
pure heart of childhood . . . 'who so offendeth one of these little
ones.' . . . I received you into my house and trembled for my
children. Oh, when you become a mother, you will understand my
fears. And every one was surprised at my receiving you, excuse my
saying so, as a respectable woman, and hinted to me . . . well, of
course, slanders, suppositions. . . . At the bottom of my heart I
blamed you, but you were unhappy, flighty, to be pitied, and my
heart was wrung with pity for you."

"But why, why?" asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, trembling all over.
"What harm have I done any one?"