The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English

happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a

desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that

_he_ ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same

thing. But what had he to be ashamed of? "What have I to be

ashamed of?" she asked herself in injured surprise. She laid

down the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly

gripping the paper cutter in both hands. There was nothing. She

went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good, pleasant.

She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of

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slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there

was nothing shameful. And for all that, at the same point in her

memories, the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some

inner voice, just at the point when she thought of Vronsky, were

saying to her, "Warm, very warm, hot." "Well, what is it?" she

said to herself resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge.

"What does it mean? Am I afraid to look it straight in the face?

Why, what is it? Can it be that between me and this officer boy

there exist, or can exist, any other relations than such as are

common with every acquaintance?" She laughed contemptuously and

took up her book again; but now she was definitely unable to

follow what she read. She passed the paper knife over the window

pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and almost

laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without

cause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings

being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg.

She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes

twitching nervously, something within oppressing her breathing,

while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to

strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt were

continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the

train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still

altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger.

"What's that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast?

And what am I myself? Myself or some other woman?" She was

afraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her

towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She

got up to rouse herself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape

of her warm dress. For a moment she regained her

self-possession, and realized that the thin peasant who had come

in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing from it, was the

stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was

the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but then

everything grew blurred again.... That peasant with the long

waist seemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady

began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and

filling it with a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking

and banging, as though someone were being torn to pieces; then

there was a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a

wall seemed to rise up and hide everything. Anna felt as though

she were sinking down. But it was not terrible, but delightful.

The voice of a man muffled up and covered with snow shouted

something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself together;

she realized that they had reached a station and that this was

the guard. She asked Annushka to hand her the cape she had taken

off and her shawl, put them on and moved towards the door.




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