Nikolay, his elbows on the table, and
his head leaning on his hands, looked at her through his glasses
without moving, his eyes screwed up intently. Sofya flung herself
back on her chair. Sometimes she trembled, and at times muttered
to herself, shaking her head in disapproval. Her face grew paler.
Her eyes deepened.
"Once I thought myself unhappy. My life seemed a fever," said
Sofya, inclining her head. "That was when I was in exile. It was
in a small district town. There was nothing to do, nothing to think
about except myself. I swept all my misfortunes together into one
heap, and weighed them, from lack of anything better to do. Then I
quarreled with my father, whom I loved. I was expelled from the
gymnasium, and insulted--the prison, the treachery of a comrade near
to me, the arrest of my husband, again prison and exile, the death
of my husband. But all my misfortunes, and ten times their number,
are not worth a month of your life, Pelagueya Nilovna. Your torture
continued daily through years. From where do the people draw their
power to suffer?"
"They get used to it," responded the mother with a sigh.
"I thought I knew that life," said Nikolay softly.
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