that day! How happy I was, walking beside him, even without speaking.
. . . But I am glad of what happened. I see that it was quite as it
should be.

'. . . Restlessness again ... I am not quite well. . . . All these
days I have written nothing in this book, because I have had no wish
to write. I felt, whatever I write, it won't be what is in my heart.
. . . And what is in my heart? I have had a long talk with him, which
revealed a great deal. He told me his plan (by the way, I know now how
he got the wound in his neck. . . . Good God! when I think he was
actually condemned to death, that he was only just saved, that he was
wounded. . . . ) He prophesies war and will be glad of it. And for all
that, I never saw D. so depressed. What can he ... he! ... be
depressed by? Papa arrived home from town and came upon us two. He
looked rather queerly at us. Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had
grown very thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave too coldly
and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had utterly forgotten Paul's
existence. I will see him, and try to smooth over my offence. He is
nothing to me now . . . nor any one else in the world. Andrei
Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does it
all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so dark? I feel as
if about me and within me, something mysterious were happening, for
which I want to find the right word. ... I did not sleep all night;
my head aches. What's the good of writing? He went away so quickly
to-day and I wanted to talk to him. . . . He almost seems to avoid me.
Yes, he avoids me.

'. . . The word is found, light has dawned on me! My God, have pity
on me. . . . I love him!'