what are you saying!...  I love you, Aleksandra Andreyevna.’  She looked straight into my eyes, and opened her arms wide.  ‘Then take me in your arms.’  I tell you frankly, I don’t know how it was I did not go mad that night.  I feel that my patient is killing herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I understand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of death, she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you will, it’s hard to die at twenty without having known love; this was what was torturing her; this was why, in, despair, she caught at me—­do you understand now?  But she held me in her arms, and would not let me go.  ’Have pity on me, Aleksandra Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,’ I say.  ‘Why,’ she says; ’what is there to think of?  You know I must die.’ ...  This she repeated incessantly ...  ’If I knew that I should return to life, and be a proper young lady again, I should be ashamed ... of course, ashamed ... but why now?’ ’But who has said you will die?’ ’Oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive me; you don’t know how to lie—­look at your face.’ ...  ’You shall live, Aleksandra Andreyevna; I will cure you; we will ask your mother’s blessing ... we will be united—­we will be happy.’  ’No, no, I have your word; I must die ... you have promised me ... you have told me.’ ...  It was cruel for me—­cruel for many reasons.  And see what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at all, but it’s painful.  It occurred to her to ask me, what is my name; not my surname, but my first name.  I must needs be so unlucky as to be called Trifon.  Yes, indeed; Trifon Ivanich.  Every one in the house called me doctor.  However, there’s no help for it.  I say, ‘Trifon, madam.’  She frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in French—­ah, something unpleasant, of course!—­and then she laughed—­disagreeably too.  Well, I spent the whole night with her in this way.  Before morning I went away, feeling as though I were mad.  When I went again into her room it was daytime, after morning tea.  Good God!  I could scarcely recognise her; people are laid in their grave looking better than that.  I swear to you, on my honour, I don’t understand—­I absolutely don’t understand—­now, how I lived through that experience.  Three days and nights my patient still lingered on.  And what nights!  What things she said to me!  And on the last night—­only imagine to yourself—­I was sitting near her, and kept praying to God for one thing only:  ’Take her,’ I said, ‘quickly, and me with her.’  Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly into the room.  I had already the evening before told her—–­the mother—­there was little hope, and it would be well to send for a priest.  When the sick girl saw her mother she said:  ’It’s very well you have come; look at us, we love one another—­we have given each other our word.’  ’What does she say, doctor? what does she say?’ I turned livid.  ‘She is wandering,’ I say; ‘the fever.’  But she:  ’Hush, hush; you told me something quite different just now, and have taken my ring.  Why do you pretend?  My mother is good—­she will forgive—­she will understand—­and I am dying. ...  I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand.’  I jumped up and ran out of the room.  The old lady, of course, guessed how it was.