Just as Tanya Kovalchuk had thought all her life only of others and
never of herself, so now she suffered and grieved painfully, but only
for her comrades. She pictured death, only as awaiting them, as
something tormenting only to Sergey Golovin, to Musya, to the
others-as for herself, it did not concern her.

As a recompense for her firmness and restraint in the courtroom she
wept for long hours, as old women who have experienced great misery,
or as very sympathetic and kind-hearted young people know how to weep.
And the fear that perhaps Seryozha was without tobacco or Werner
without the strong tea to which he was accustomed, in addition to the
fact that they were to die, caused her no less pain than the idea of
the execution itself. Death was something inevitable and even
unimportant, of which it was not worth while to think; but for a man
in prison, before his execution, to be left without tobacco-that was
altogether unbearable. She recalled and went over in her mind all the
pleasant details of their life together, and then she grew faint with
fear when she pictured to herself the meeting between Sergey and his
parents.

She felt particularly sorry for Musya. It had long seemed to her that
Musya loved Werner, and although this was not a fact, she still
dreamed of something good and bright for both of them. When she had
been free, Musya had worn a silver ring, on which was the design of a
skull, bones, and a crown of thorns about them. Tanya Kovalchuk had
often looked upon the ring as a symbol of doom, and she would ask
Musya, now in jest, now in earnest, to remove the ring.