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104
SÖNYA KOVALÉVSKY
been placed in the carriage. The governess is put in
also. One more long, tender embrace.
"Take care, miss, or you ’11 get under the horses’
feet!" some one cries, and the carriage moves off.
I run up-stairs to the corner room, from whose
windows is visible the whole of the birch avenue, a
verst in length, which leads from the house to the
highway, and press my face to the pane. I cannot
tear myself away from the window as long as the
equipage is visible, and my feeling of personal guilt grows
stronger and stronger. Heavens! How I regret at
that moment the departing governess! All my
skirmishes with her—and they have been especially
numerous of låte—now appear to me in quite another
light than they have appeared previously.
"And she loved me. She would have remained had
she known how I love her. But now no one, no one
loves me," I say to myself, with tardy repentance,
and my sobs grow louder and louder.
"Is it over Margarita that you are mourning so?"
asks my brother Fedya as he runs past me. Surprise
and mockery are audible in his voice.
"Let her alone, Fedya. It does her credit that she
is so affectionate"—I hear behind me the hortatory
voice of my old aunt, whom none of us children loves,
because we consider her deceitful. My brother’s
mockery, and my aunt’s sweetish praise, act upon me
in an equally disagreeable, sobering manner. I
never could bear from my childhood up to have
people for whom I do not care comfort me in my
heart-troubles. Consequently I angrily thrust aside the
hand which my aunt lays on my shoulder by way
of a caress, and muttering wrathfully, "I ’m not
mourning at all, and I’m not in the least
affectionate," I rush off to my own room.
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