.."
She went on much slower, with indifference--
"You may call me Tekla, then. My poor Andrei called me so. I was devoted
to him. He lived in wretchedness and suffering, and died in misery. That
is the lot of all us Russians, nameless Russians. There is nothing else
for us, and no hope anywhere, unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless all these people with names are done away with," she finished,
blinking and pursing up her lips.
"It will be easier to call you Tekla, as you direct me," said
Razumov, "if you consent to call me Kirylo, when we are talking like
this--quietly--only you and me."
And he said to himself, "Here's a being who must be terribly afraid of
the world, else she would have run away from this situation before."
Then he reflected that the mere fact of leaving the great man abruptly
would make her a suspect. She could expect no support or countenance
from anyone. This revolutionist was not fit for an independent
existence.
She moved with him a few steps, blinking and nursing the cat with a
small balancing movement of her arms.
"Yes--only you and I. That's how I was with my poor Andrei, only he was
dying, killed by these official brutes--while you! You are strong. You
kill the monsters. You have done a great deed. Peter Ivanovitch himself
must consider you.
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