Insarov sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor at her feet.

'Come, take off my gloves,' she said in an uncertain voice. She felt
afraid.

He began first to unbutton and then to draw off one glove; he drew it
half off and greedily pressed his lips to the slender, soft wrist,
which was white under it.

Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back with the other hand;
he began kissing the other hand too. Elena drew it away, he threw back
his head, she looked into his face, bent above him, and their lips
touched.

An instant passed . . . she broke away, got up, whispered 'No, no,'
and went quickly up to the writing-table.

'I am mistress here, you know, so you ought not to have any secrets
from me,' she said, trying to seem at ease, and standing with her back
to him. 'What a lot of papers! what are these letters?'

Insarov knitted his brows. 'Those letters?' he said, getting up, 'you
can read them.'

Elena turned them over in her hand. 'There are so many of them, and
the writing is so fine, and I have to go directly ... let them be.
They're not from a rival, eh? ... and they're not in Russian,' she
added, turning over the thin sheets.