Page 1683 - ANNA KARENINA

Anna Karenina

half-opened mouth, the strange, fixed expression, piteous
on the lips and awful in the still open eyes, that seemed to
utter that fearful phrase—that he would be sorry for it—
that she had said when they were quarreling.

And he tried to think of her as she was when he met
her the first time, at a railway station too, mysterious,
exquisite, loving, seeking and giving happiness, and not
cruelly revengeful as he remembered her on that last
moment. He tried to recall his best moments with her, but
those moments were poisoned forever. He could only
think of her as triumphant, successful in her menace of a
wholly useless remorse never to be effaced. He lost all
consciousness of toothache, and his face worked with sobs.
Passing twice up and down beside the baggage in
silence and regaining his self-possession, he addressed
Sergey Ivanovitch calmly:
‘You have had no telegrams since yesterday’s? Yes,
driven back for a third time, but a decisive engagement
expected for tomorrow.’
And after talking a little more of King Milan’s
proclamation, and the immense effect it might have, they
parted, going to their carriages on hearing the second bell.

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