pray. . . . Ah, I think I should know how to love! ... I am still shy
with Mr. Insarov. I don't know why; I believe I'm not schoolgirlish
generally, and he is so simple and kind. Sometimes he has a very
serious face. He can't give much thought to us. I feel that, and am
ashamed in a way to take up his time. With Andrei Petrovitch it's
quite a different thing. I am ready to chat with him the whole day
long. But he too always talks of Insarov. And such terrible facts he
tells me about him! I saw him in a dream last night with a dagger in
his hand. And he seemed to say to me, "I will kill you and I will kill
myself!" What silliness!

'Oh, if some one would say to me: "There, that's what you must do!"
Being good--isn't much; doing good . . . yes, that's the great
thing in life. But how is one to do good? Oh, if I could learn to
control myself! I don't know why I am so often thinking of Mr.
Insarov. When he comes and sits and listens intently, but makes no
effort, no exertion himself, I look at him, and feel pleased, and
that's all, and when he goes, I always go over his words, and feel
vexed with myself, and upset even. I can't tell why. (He speaks French
badly and isn't ashamed of it--I like that.) I always think a lot
about new people, though. As I talked to him, I suddenly was reminded
of our butler, Vassily, who rescued an old cripple out of a hut that
was on fire, and was almost killed himself. Papa called him a brave
fellow, mamma gave him five roubles, and I felt as though I could fall
at his feet. And he had a simple face--stupid-looking even--and he
took to drink later on. . . .

'I gave a penny to-day to a beggar woman, and she said to me, "Why are
you so sorrowful?" I never suspected I looked sorrowful. I think it
must come from being alone, always alone, for better, for worse!