Foma heaved a sigh.
A soft sound of music soared about Medinskaya, and her face was forever changing as though shadows were falling on it, falling and melting away under the flash of her eyes.
Foma looked at her and saw that when alone she was not quite so good-looking as in the presence of people--now her face looked older, more serious--her eyes had not the expression of kindness and gentleness, they had a rather tired and weary look.

And her pose, too, was weary, as if the woman were about to stir but could not.

Foma noticed that the feeling which prompted him to come to her was now changing in his heart into some other feeling.

He scraped with his foot along the floor and coughed.
"Who is that ?" asked the woman, starting with alarm.

And the strings trembled, issuing an alarmed sound.
"It is I," said Foma, pushing aside the strings of the beads.
"Ah! But how quietly you've entered.