He started, in the utmost astonishment, staring at her as though he fancied that she had lost her senses.
"You! Why, Vjera, how can you imagine that I would take it from you, or how do you think it would be possible for you to find it?
You are mad, my dear child, quite mad!" In spite of everything, the tears broke from her eyes at the words which meant so much to her and which seemed to mean so little to him.

But she brushed them bravely away.
"You say you love me--you know that I love you.

Do you trust me?
Do you believe in me?
And if you do, why then believe that I will do what I say.
And as for taking the fifty marks from me--will not your friends be here to-night, as you say, and will you not be able to give it all back very soon?
Only wait here--or no, go into the shop and talk to Fischelowitz--I will bring it to you in less than an hour, I promise you that I will--" "But how?
Oh, Vjera--I am in such trouble that I could almost bring myself to borrow it of you if you could lend it--I despise myself, but it is growing so late, and it will only be until to-morrow, only for a few hours perhaps.

If you will wait to-night I may bring it to you before bedtime.
But--are you sure, Vjera?
Have you really got it?
If I should wait here--and you should not find it--and my word should be broken--" "For your word I give you mine.

You shall have it in an hour." She tried to throw so much certainty into her tone as might persuade him, and she succeeded.