turn his attention to every object that presented itself, and, as it were,
persuaded himself that he had simply come out for a walk like the other
people passing to and fro.... The letter of the day before was in his
breast-pocket, and he was conscious all the while of its presence there. He
walked twice up and down the boulevard, scrutinised sharply every feminine
figure that came near him--and his heart throbbed.... He felt tired and sat
down on a bench. And suddenly the thought struck him: 'What if that letter
was not written by her, but to some one else by some other woman?' In
reality this should have been a matter of indifference to him ... and yet
he had to admit to himself that he did not want this to be so. 'That would
be too silly,' he thought, 'even sillier than _this_!' A nervous unrest
began to gain possession of him; he began to shiver--not outwardly, but
inwardly. He several times took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket,
looked at the face, put it back, and each time forgot how many minutes it
was to five. He fancied that every passer-by looked at him in a peculiar
way, with a sort of sarcastic astonishment and curiosity. A wretched little
dog ran up, sniffed at his legs, and began wagging its tail. He threatened
it angrily. He was particularly annoyed by a factory lad in a greasy smock,
who seated himself on a seat on the other side of the boulevard, and by
turns whistling, scratching himself, and swinging his feet in enormous
tattered boots, persistently stared at him. 'And his master,' thought
Aratov, 'is waiting for him, no doubt, while he, lazy scamp, is kicking up
his heels here....'

But at that very instant he felt that some one had come up and was standing
close behind him ... there was a breath of something warm from behind....

He looked round.... She!

He knew her at once, though a thick, dark blue veil hid her features. He