her strong, rough little hand his large hand she ran to the left,
rustling her starched skirt.

Nekhludoff was a swift runner; he wished to out-distance the artist,
and ran with all his might. As he turned around he saw the artist
catching up with Katiousha, but with her supple limbs she gained on
him and ran to the left. In front of them was a patch of lilac bushes,
behind which no one ran, but Katiousha, turning toward Nekhludoff,
motioned him with her head to join her there. He understood her, and
ran behind the bushes. But here was a ditch overgrown with nettles,
whose presence was unknown to Nekhludoff. He stumbled and fell,
stinging and wetting his hands in the evening dew that was now
falling, but, laughing, he straightened himself and ran into the open.

Katiousha, her black eyes beaming with joy, ran toward him. They met
and caught each others' hands.

"You were stung by the nettles, I suppose," she said, arranging with
her free hand her loosened braid, breathing heavily, and looking up
into his eyes.

"I did not know there was a ditch," he said, also smiling, and still
keeping her hand in his.

She advanced a little, and he, without being able to account for it,
inclined his face toward hers. She did not draw back. He pressed her
hand and kissed her on the lips.

She uttered an exclamation, and with a swift movement, releasing her
hand, she ran in the direction of the crowd.