(^12001201)
actions.
“I don’t want you, Pyotr.”
“But how about the ticket?”
“Well, as you like, it doesn’t matter,” she said crossly.
Pyotr jumped on the box, and putting his arms akimbo, told the
coachman to drive to the booking-office.
Chapter 30.
“Here it is again! Again I understand it all!” Anna said to herself,
as soon as the carriage had started and swaying lightly, rumbled over
the tiny cobbles of the paved road, and again one impression followed
rapidly upon another.
“Yes; what was the last thing I thought of so clearly?” she tried to
recall it. “‘Tiutkin, coiffeur?’—no, not that. Yes, of what Yashvin says,
the struggle for existence and hatred is the one thing that holds men
together. No, it’s a useless journey you’re making,” she said, mentally
addressing a party in a coach and four, evidently going for an excursion
into the country. “And the dog you’re taking with you will be no help to
you. You can’t get away from yourselves.” Turning her eyes in the
direction Pyotr had turned to look, she saw a factory hand almost dead
drunk, with hanging head, being led away by a policeman. “Come, he’s
found a quicker way,” she thought. “Count Vronsky and I did not find
that happiness either, though we expected so much from it.” And now
for the first time Anna turned that glaring light in which she was
seeing everything on to her relations with him, which she had hitherto
avoided thinking about. “What was it he sought in me? Not love so
much as the satisfaction of vanity.” She remembered his words, the
expression of his face, that recalled an abject setter-dog, in the early
days of their connection. And everything now confirmed this. “Yes,