Page 1517 - ANNA KARENINA

Anna Karenina

He never tells a lie. But there’s something else in it if it’s
true. He is glad of an opportunity of showing me that he
has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But why
prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for

me is not to interfere with his freedom. But I need no
proofs, I need love. He ought to understand all the
bitterness of this life for me here in Moscow. Is this life? I
am not living, but waiting for an event, which is
continually put off and put off. No answer again! And
Stiva says he cannot go to Alexey Alexandrovitch. And I
can’t write again. I can do nothing, can begin nothing, can
alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait, inventing
amusements for myself—the English family, writing,
reading—but it’s all nothing but a sham, it’s all the same as
morphine. He ought to feel for me,’ she said, feeling tears
of self-pity coming into her eyes.
She heard Vronsky’s abrupt ring and hurriedly dried
her tears— not only dried her tears, but sat down by a
lamp and opened a book, affecting composure. She
wanted to show him that she was displeased that he had
not come home as he had promised— displeased only, and
not on any account to let him see her distress, and least of
all, her self-pity. She might pity herself, but he must not
pity her. She did not want strife, she blamed him for

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