But she wanted to hear far more than
Akulina could or would tell, she longed to know whether he had really
suffered as she fancied he had, and how he looked after spending in a
prison the night that had seemed so long to her. She would have given
anything to overwhelm the tobacconist with questions, to ask for a minute
description of the Count's appearance, to express her past terrors to some
one and to have some one tell her that they had been groundless.
But she dared not open her lips to speak of the matters which filled her
thoughts. She was so wretchedly nervous that she felt as though the tears
would break out at the sound of her own voice, and at the same time she
was disturbed by the consciousness that Johann Schmidt's eyes watched her
closely from the corner in which he was steadily wielding his swivel
knife. It had been almost natural to tell him of her love in the darkness
of the streets, in the mad anxiety for the loved one's safety, in the
weariness and the hopelessness of the night hours. But now, sitting at her
little table, at her daily work, with all the trivial objects that
belonged to it recalling her to the reality of things, she realised that
her day-dreams were no longer her secret, and she was ashamed that any one
should guess the current of her thoughts. It was hard for her to
understand how she could have thus taken the Cossack into her confidence,
and she would have made almost any sacrifice to take back the confession.
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