But
I brooded ardently over its images. The only thing was that there seemed
to be no air in it. And also I was afraid of your mother. I never knew
mine. I've never known any kind of love. There is something in the mere
word.... Of you, I was not afraid--forgive me for telling you this.
No, not of you. You were truth itself. You could not suspect me. As to
your mother, you yourself feared already that her mind had given way
from grief. Who could believe anything against me? Had not Ziemianitch
hanged himself from remorse? I said to myself, 'Let's put it to the
test, and be done with it once for all.' I trembled when I went in;
but your mother hardly listened to what I was saying to her, and, in a
little while, seemed to have forgotten my very existence. I sat looking
at her. There was no longer anything between you and me. You were
defenceless--and soon, very soon, you would be alone.... I thought of
you. Defenceless. For days you have talked with me--opening your heart.
I remembered the shadow of your eyelashes over your grey trustful eyes.
And your pure forehead! It is low like the forehead of statues--calm,
unstained. It was as if your pure brow bore a light which fell on me,
searched my heart and saved me from ignominy, from ultimate undoing.
And it saved you too.
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