But no, I cannot justify myself." She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.
Foma heaved a deep sigh.

Her words had killed in him a certain hope--a hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it was dead.

And shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach: "There was a time when I looked at you and thought, 'How beautiful she is, how good, the dove!' And now you say yourself, 'I am guilty.' Ah!" The voice of the youth broke down.

And the woman began to laugh softly.
"How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you cannot understand all this!" The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing words and melancholy smile.

That cold, harsh something, which he had in his heart against her, was now melting before the warm light of her eyes.
The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a child.