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the oblique evening shadow cast by a heap of baggage piled on the platform, Vronsky, in his long paletot and slouch hat, with his hands in his pockets, was walking, like a wild beast in a cage, up and down a narrow space where he could not take more than a score of steps. It seemed to Sergyeï Ivanovitch, as he drew near, that Vronsky saw him, but pretended not to recognize him. But to Sergyeï Ivanovitch this was all the same. He was above any petty susceptibility.

At this moment, Vronsky, in his eyes, was an important actor in a grand event, and deserved to be sustained and encouraged. He approached the count.

Vronsky stopped, looked at him, recognized him, and, taking a few steps to meet him, cordially held out his hand.

"Perhaps you would prefer not to see me," said Sergyeï Ivanovitch; "but can I be of any service to you?"

"No one could be less unpleasant for me to meet than you," answered Vronsky. "Pardon me. There is nothing pleasant for me in life."

"I understand, and I want to offer you my services," said Koznuishef, struck by the deep suffering that was apparent in the count's face. "Might not a letter to Ristitch or Milan be of some use to you?"

"Oh, no!" answered Vronsky, making an effort to understand. "If it is all the same to you, we will walk a little. It is so stifling in the train! A letter? No, thank you. One needs no letter of introduction to get killed. In this case, one to the Turks, perhaps," added he, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. His eyes kept the same expression of bitter sadness.

"Well! It would make it easier for you to come into relations with men prepared for action. Still, as you please; but I was very glad to learn of your decision. The very fact that a man of your standing has joined the volunteers will raise them above all cavil in the public estimation."