It had been almost natural to tell him of her love in the darkness of the streets, in the mad anxiety for the loved one's safety, in the weariness and the hopelessness of the night hours.

But now, sitting at her little table, at her daily work, with all the trivial objects that belonged to it recalling her to the reality of things, she realised that her day-dreams were no longer her secret, and she was ashamed that any one should guess the current of her thoughts.

It was hard for her to understand how she could have thus taken the Cossack into her confidence, and she would have made almost any sacrifice to take back the confession.
Good he was, and honest, and kind-hearted, but she was ashamed of what she had done.

It seemed to her that, besides giving up to another the knowledge of her heart, she had also done something against the dignity of him she loved.

She herself felt no superiority over Johann Schmidt; they were equals in every way.