I was in England once more--at intervals there came a sharp click that exactly resembled the sound that one hears in an English village on a summer afternoon when they are playing cricket in the field near by--oneself at one's ease in the garden, half sleeping, half building castles in the air, the crack of the ball on the bat, the cooing of some pigeons on the roof....

Once again that sharp pleasant sound, again the flight of the bird above one's head, again the rustle of some leaves behind one's head ...

soon there will be tea, strawberries and cream, a demand that one shall play tennis, that saunter through the cool dark house, up old stairs, along narrow passages to one's room where one will slowly, happily change into flannels--hearing still through the open window the crack of the bat upon the ball from the distant field....
But as I lay there I was unhappy, rebellious.

The confidence and splendour of Marie Ivanovna and Semyonov had driven me into exile.

I hated myself that afternoon.