I penetrated but a little way; my friends penetrated into the very heart ...

and, because I was left outside, I remain the only possible recorder: but a recorder who can offer only signs, moments, glimpses through a closing door....
I am waiting now for the return of my opportunity.
On the night of the death of Marie Ivanovna I slept a heavy, dreamless sleep.

I was wakened between six and seven the next morning by Nikitin, who told me that he, Trenchard, Andrey Vassilievitch and I were to return at once to the forest.

I realised at once that indescribable quiver in the air of momentous events.

The house was quite still, the summer morning very fresh and clear, but the air was weighted with some crisis.