And she, she had been and had remained a mystery.

I did not know her.

I knew her only as an animal, and an animal nothing can or should restrain.

And now I remember their faces on Sunday evening, when, after the 'Kreutzer Sonata,' they played a passionate piece, written I know not by whom, but a piece passionate to the point of obscenity.
"'How could I have gone away ?' said I to myself, as I recalled their faces.

'Was it not clear that between them everything was done that evening?
Was it not clear that between them not only there were no more obstacles, but that both--especially she--felt a certain shame after what had happened at the piano?
How weakly, pitiably, happily she smiled, as she wiped the perspiration from her reddened face! They already avoided each other's eyes, and only at the supper, when she poured some water for him, did they look at each other and smile imperceptibly.' "Now I remember with fright that look and that scarcely perceptible smile.