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The fat old Tatar, Madame Karenina's coachman, was with

difficulty holding one of her pair of grays, chilled with the

cold and rearing at the entrance. A footman stood opening the

carriage door. The hall-porter stood holding open the great door

of the house. Anna Arkadyevna, with her quick little hand, was

unfastening the lace of her sleeve, caught in the hook of her fur

cloak, and with bent head listening to the words Vronsky murmured

as he escorted her down.

"You've said nothing, of course, and I ask nothing," he was

saying; "but you know that friendship's not what I want: that

there's only one happiness in life for me, that word that you

dislike so ... yes, love!..."

"Love," she repeated slowly, in an inner voice, and suddenly, at

the very instant she unhooked the lace, she added, "Why I don't

like the word is that it means too much to me, far more than you

can understand," and she glanced into his face. "Au revoir!"