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Levin felt that, in spite of all the ugliness of his life, his

brother Nikolay, in his soul, in the very depths of his soul, was

no more in the wrong than the people who despised him. He was not

to blame for having been born with his unbridled temperament and

his somehow limited intelligence. But he had always wanted to be

good. "I will tell him everything, without reserve, and I will

make him speak without reserve, too, and I'll show him that I

love him, and so understand him," Levin resolved to himself, as,

towards eleven o'clock, he reached the hotel of which he had the

address.

"At the top, 12 and 13," the porter answered Levin's inquiry.

"At home?"

"Sure to be at home."

The door of No. 12 was half open, and there came out into the

streak of light thick fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and the sound

of a voice, unknown to Levin; but he knew at once that his

brother was there; he heard his cough.

As he went in the door, the unknown voice was saying: