Every summer he used to move into this little lodge which stood adjoining the huge seignorial house of Skvoreshniki, almost in the garden.

He had only just gone in, and in restless hesitation taken a cigar, and not having yet lighted it, was standing weary and motionless before the open window, gazing at the light feathery white clouds gliding around the bright moon, when suddenly a faint rustle made him start and turn round.

Varvara Petrovna, whom he had left only four minutes earlier, was standing before him again.

Her yellow face was almost blue.

Her lips were pressed tightly together and twitching at the corners.