But how vexed I felt when, on returning to our own room, and
hastily turning the pages, only an old, battered worm-eaten Latin
work greeted my eyes! Without loss of time I retraced my steps.
Just when I was about to replace the book I heard a noise in the
corridor outside, and the sound of footsteps approaching.
Fumblingly I hastened to complete what I was about, but the
tiresome book had become so tightly wedged into its row that, on
being pulled out, it caused its fellows to close up too compactly
to leave any place for their comrade. To insert the book was
beyond my strength; yet still I kept pushing and pushing at the
row. At last the rusty nail which supported the shelf (the thing
seemed to have been waiting on purpose for that moment!) broke
off short; with the result that the shelf descended with a crash,
and the books piled themselves in a heap on the floor! Then the
door of the room opened, and Pokrovski entered!

I must here remark that he never could bear to have his
possessions tampered with. Woe to the person, in particular, who
touched his books! Judge, therefore, of my horror when books
small and great, books of every possible shape and size and
thickness, came tumbling from the shelf, and flew and sprang over
the table, and under the chairs, and about the whole room. I
would have turned and fled, but it was too late. "All is over!"
thought I. "All is over! I am ruined, I am undone! Here have I
been playing the fool like a ten-year-old child! What a stupid
girl I am! The monstrous fool!"

Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. "What? Have you not done
enough?" he cried. "Are you not ashamed to be for ever indulging