He had argued himself into new beliefs; and he had made for himself a
mental atmosphere of gloomy and sardonic reverie, a sort of murky
medium through which the event appeared like a featureless shadow having
vaguely the shape of a man; a shape extremely familiar, yet utterly
inexpressive, except for its air of discreet waiting in the dusk. It was
not alarming.
"What was he like?" the woman revolutionist asked unexpectedly.
"What was he like?" echoed Razumov, making a painful effort not to turn
upon her savagely. But he relieved himself by laughing a little while he
stole a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. This reception of
her inquiry disturbed her.
"How like a woman," he went on. "What is the good of concerning yourself
with his appearance? Whatever it was, he is removed beyond all feminine
influences now."
A frown, making three folds at the root of her nose, accentuated the
Mephistophelian slant of her eyebrows.
"You suffer, Razumov," she suggested, in her low, confident voice.
"What nonsense!" Razumov faced the woman fairly. "But now I think of it,
I am not sure that he is beyond the influence of one woman at least; the
one over there--Madame de S--, you know. Formerly the dead were allowed
to rest, but now it seems they are at the beck and call of a crazy old
harridan.
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