I remember that the great heat of the morning wrought in us all a kind of lethargy.

We were lazily confident that day that nothing evil could overtake us.

We idly watched the sky, the river, the approaching forest, with a luxurious reliance on the power of man, and I caught much of my assurance from Semyonov himself.

He did really seem to me, that morning, a "tremendous" figure, as he sat there, so still, so triumphant.

He had never before, perhaps, been quite certain of Marie Ivanovna, had been alarmed at her independence, or at his own passionate love for her.