"A--a--a!" groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head. "Ah! what

have I done!" he cried. "The race lost! And my fault! shameful,

unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have

I done!"

A crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his

regiment, ran up to him. To his misery he felt that he was whole

and unhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to

shoot her. Vronsky could not answer questions, could not speak

to anyone. He turned, and without picking up his cap that had

fallen off, walked away from the race course, not knowing where

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he was going. He felt utterly wretched. For the first time in

his life he knew the bitterest sort of misfortune, misfortune

beyond remedy, and caused by his own fault.

Yashvin overtook him with his cap, and led him home, and half an

hour later Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the

memory of that race remained for long in his heart, the cruelest

and bitterest memory of his life.




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