Page 404 of 2288

"Anna, is this you?" said Alexey Alexandrovitch, quietly making

an effort over himself, and restraining the motion of his

fingers.

"But what is it all about?" she said, with such genuine and droll

wonder. "What do you want of me?"

Alexey Alexandrovitch paused, and rubbed his forehead and his

eyes. He saw that instead of doing as he had intended-that is to

say, warning his wife against a mistake in the eyes of the

world-he had unconsciously become agitated over what was the

affair of her conscience, and was struggling against the barrier

he fancied between them.