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night, could she stifle the fearful thought of what would be if he ceased
to love her. It is true there was still one means; not to keep him—for
that she wanted nothing more than his love—but to be nearer to him,
to be in such a position that he would not leave her. That means was
divorce and marriage. And she began to long for that, and made up her
mind to agree to it the first time he or Stiva approached her on the
subject.
Absorbed in such thoughts, she passed five days without him, the
five days that he was to be at the elections.
Walks, conversation with Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital,
and, most of all, reading—reading of one book after another—filled up
her time. But on the sixth day, when the coachman came back without
him, she felt that now she was utterly incapable of stifling the thought
of him and of what he was doing there, just at that time her little girl
was taken ill. Anna began to look after her, but even that did not
distract her mind, especially as the illness was not serious. However
hard she tried, she could not love this little child, and to feign love was
beyond her powers. Towards the evening of that day, still alone, Anna
was in such a panic about him that she decided to start for the town,
but on second thoughts wrote him the contradictory letter that Vronsky
received, and without reading it through, sent it off by a special mes-
senger. The next morning she received his letter and regretted her
own. She dreaded a repetition of the severe look he had flung at her at
parting, especially when he knew that the baby was not dangerously
ill. But still she was glad she had written to him. At this moment Anna
was positively admitting to herself that she was a burden to him, that
he would relinquish his freedom regretfully to return to her, and in
spite of that she was glad he was coming. Let him weary of her, but he
would be here with her, so that she would see him, would know of every
action he took.
She was sitting in the drawing room near a lamp, with a new vol-
ume of Taine, and as she read, listening to the sound of the wind
outside, and every minute expecting the carriage to arrive. Several
times she had fancied she heard the sound of wheels, but she had
been mistaken. At last she heard not the sound of wheels, but the
coachman’s shout and the dull rumble in the covered entry. Even
Princess Varvara, playing patience, confirmed this, and Anna, flushing
hotly, got up; but instead of going down, as she had done twice before,
she stood still. She suddenly felt ashamed of her duplicity, but even
more she dreaded how he might meet her. All feeling of wounded
pride had passed now; she was only afraid of the expression of his
displeasure. She remembered that her child had been perfectly well
again for the last two days. She felt positively vexed with her for
getting better from the very moment her letter was sent off. Then she
thought of him, that he was here, all of him, with his hands, his eyes.
She heard his voice. And forgetting everything, she ran joyfully to
meet him.
“Well, how is Annie?” he said timidly from below, looking up to
Anna as she ran down to him.
He was sitting on a chair, and a footman was pulling off his warm
over-boot.
“Oh, she is better.”
“And you?” he said, shaking himself.
she took his hand in both of hers, and drew it to her waist, never
taking her eyes off him.
“Well, I’m glad,” he said, coldly scanning her, her hair, her dress,
which he knew she had put on for him. All was charming, but how
many times it had charmed him! And the stern, stony expression that