Alexandrovitch went into the bedroom, and went up to the bed.  She was lying turned with her face towards him.  Her cheeks were flushed crimson, her eyes glittered, her little white hands thrust out from the sleeves of her dressing gown were playing with the quilt, twisting it about.  It seemed as though she were not only well and blooming, but in the happiest frame of mind.  She was talking rapidly, musically, and with exceptionally correct articulation and expressive intonation.

“For Alexey—­I am speaking of Alexey Alexandrovitch (what a strange and awful thing that both are Alexey, isn’t it?)—­Alexey would not refuse me.  I should forget, he would forgive....  But why doesn’t he come?  He’s so good he doesn’t know himself how good he is.  Ah, my God, what agony!  Give me some water, quick!  Oh, that will be bad for her, my little girl!  Oh, very well then, give her to a nurse.  Yes, I agree, it’s better in fact.  He’ll be coming; it will hurt him to see her.  Give her to the nurse.”

“Anna Arkadyevna, he has come.  Here he is!” said the midwife, trying to attract her attention to Alexey Alexandrovitch.

“Oh, what nonsense!” Anna went on, not seeing her husband.  “No, give her to me; give me my little one!  He has not come yet.  You say he won’t forgive me, because you don’t know him.  No one knows him.  I’m the only one, and it was hard for me even.  His eyes I ought to know—­Seryozha has just the same eyes—­and I can’t bear to see them because of it.  Has Seryozha had his dinner?  I know everyone will forget him.  He would not forget.  Seryozha must be moved into the corner room, and Mariette must be asked to sleep with him.”

All of a sudden she shrank back, was silent; and in terror, as though expecting a blow, as though to defend herself, she raised her hands to her face.  She had seen her husband.

“No, no!” she began.  “I am not afraid of him; I am afraid of death.  Alexey, come here.  I am in a hurry, because I’ve no time, I’ve not long left to live; the fever will begin directly and I shall understand nothing more.  Now I understand, I understand it all, I see it all!”

Alexey Alexandrovitch’s wrinkled face wore an expression of agony; he took her by the hand and tried to say something, but he could not utter it; his lower lip quivered, but he still went on struggling with his emotion, and only now and then glanced at her.  And each time he glanced at her, he saw her eyes gazing at him with such passionate and triumphant tenderness as he had never seen in them.

“Wait a minute, you don’t know...stay a little, stay!...”  She stopped, as though collecting her ideas.  “Yes,” she began; “yes, yes, yes.  This is what I wanted to say.  Don’t be surprised at me.  I’m still the same....  But there is another woman in me, I’m afraid of her:  she loved that man, and I tried to hate you, and could not forget about her that used to be.  I’m not that