After taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but

began walking up and down the room. She had unconsciously the

whole evening done her utmost to arouse in Levin a feeling of

love--as of late she had fallen into doing with all young men--

and she knew she had attained her aim, as far as was possible in

one evening, with a married and conscientious man. She liked him

indeed extremely, and, in spite of the striking difference, from

the masculine point of view, between Vronsky and Levin, as a

woman she saw something they had in common, which had made Kitty

able to love both. Yet as soon as he was out of the room, she

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ceased to think of him.

One thought, and one only, pursued her in different forms, and

refused to be shaken off. "If I have so much effect on others,

on this man, who loves his home and his wife, why is it _he_ is

so cold to me?...not cold exactly, he loves me, I know that! But

something new is drawing us apart now. Why wasn't he here all

the evening? He told Stiva to say he could not leave Yashvin,

and must watch over his play. Is Yashvin a child? But supposing

it's true. He never tells a lie. But there's something else in

it if it's true. He is glad of an opportunity of showing me that

he has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But why

prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for me is

not to interfere with his freedom. But I need no proofs, I need

love. He ought to understand all the bitterness of this life for

me here in Moscow. Is this life? I am not living, but waiting

for an event, which is continually put off and put off. No

answer again! And Stiva says he cannot go to Alexey

Alexandrovitch. And I can't write again. I can do nothing, can

begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait,

inventing amusements for myself--the English family, writing,

reading--but it's all nothing but a sham, it's all the same as

morphine. He ought to feel for me," she said, feeling tears of

self-pity coming into her eyes.

She heard Vronsky's abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears--

not only dried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a

book, affecting composure. She wanted to show him that she was

displeased that he had not come home as he had promised--

displeased only, and not on any account to let him see her

distress, and least of all, her self-pity. She might pity

herself, but he must not pity her. She did not want strife, she

blamed him for wanting to quarrel, but unconsciously put herself

into an attitude of antagonism.




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