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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 216 pages of information about The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories.

Some one was coming up the stairs.

“You must go away,” Anna Sergeyevna went on in a whisper.  “Do you hear, Dmitri Dmitritch?  I will come and see you in Moscow.  I have never been happy; I am miserable now, and I never, never shall be happy, never!  Don’t make me suffer still more!  I swear I’ll come to Moscow.  But now let us part.  My precious, good, dear one, we must part!”

She pressed his hand and began rapidly going downstairs, looking round at him, and from her eyes he could see that she really was unhappy.  Gurov stood for a little while, listened, then, when all sound had died away, he found his coat and left the theatre.

IV

And Anna Sergeyevna began coming to see him in Moscow.  Once in two or three months she left S——­, telling her husband that she was going to consult a doctor about an internal complaint—­and her husband believed her, and did not believe her.  In Moscow she stayed at the Slaviansky Bazaar hotel, and at once sent a man in a red cap to Gurov.  Gurov went to see her, and no one in Moscow knew of it.

Once he was going to see her in this way on a winter morning (the messenger had come the evening before when he was out).  With him walked his daughter, whom he wanted to take to school:  it was on the way.  Snow was falling in big wet flakes.

“It’s three degrees above freezing-point, and yet it is snowing,” said Gurov to his daughter.  “The thaw is only on the surface of the earth; there is quite a different temperature at a greater height in the atmosphere.”

“And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father?”

He explained that, too.  He talked, thinking all the while that he was going to see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably never would know.  He had two lives:  one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret.  And through some strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth—­such, for instance, as his work in the bank, his discussions at the club, his “lower race,” his presence with his wife at anniversary festivities—­all that was open.  And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night.  All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilised man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.

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