Time is the measure of most unhapppiness, for it is in sorrow and anxiety
that we are most keenly conscious of it, and are oppressed by its leaden
weight. When we are absorbed in work, in study, in the production of
anything upon which all our faculties are concentrated, we say that the
time passes quickly. When we are happy we know nothing of time nor of its
movement, only, long afterwards, we look back, and we say, "How short the
hours seemed then!"
Vjera toiled on and on, watching the creeping sunshine on the floor,
glancing at the ever-increasing heap of cut leaves that fell from the
Cossack's cutting-block, noting the slow rise in the pile of paper shells
before her and comparing it with that produced by the girl at her elbow,
longing for the moment when she would see the freshly-made cigarettes just
below the inner edge of Dumnoff's basket, taking account of every little
thing by which to persuade herself that the day was declining and the
evening at hand.
Her life was sad and monotonous enough at the best of times. It seemed as
though the accidents of the night had made it by contrast ten times more
sad and monotonous and hopeless than before.
CHAPTER IX.
The Count, as Vjera supposed, had dressed himself with even greater care
than usual in anticipation of the official visit, and while she was
working through the never-ending hours of her weary day, he was calmly
seated upon a chair by the open window in his little room, one leg crossed
over the other, one hand thrust into the bosom of his coat and the other
extended idly upon the table by his side.
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