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 was excited and intoxicated with the wine of admiration. Kitty knew the sensation, knew the symptoms and recognized them in Anna—she saw the feverish brilliancy of her, and the smile of happiness and excitement involuntarily parting her lips, and the harmony, precision, and grace of her movements.

"Who has caused it?" she asked herself. "All, or one?"

She would not help her tormented partner in the conversation, the thread of which he had dropped and could not pick up again; and though she submitted with apparent good grace to the loud orders of Korsunsky, shouting "Ladies' chain" and "All hands around," she watched her closely, and her heart oppressed her more and more.

"No, it is not the approval of the crowd that has so intoxicated her, but the admiration of the one. And that one?—Can it be he?"

Every time Vronsky spoke to Anna, her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and a smile of happiness parted her rosy lips. She seemed to make an effort not to exhibit any signs of this joy, but nevertheless happiness was painted on her face.

"Can it be he?" thought Kitty.

She looked at him, and was horror-struck. The sentiments that were reflected on Anna's face as in a mirror were also visible on his. Where were his coolness, his calm dignity, the repose which always marked his face? Now, as he addressed his partner, his head bent as if he were ready to worship her, and his look expressed at once humility and passion, as if it said, '''I would not offend you. I would save myself, and how can I?'''

Such was the expression of his face, and she had never before seen it in him.

They talked about their mutual acquaintances, their conversation was made up of trifles, and yet Kitty felt that every word they spoke decided her fate. Strange as it might seem, although they really remarked how ridiculous Ivan Ivanuitch was in his efforts to speak