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 "I heard him invite her for the mazurka," said the countess, knowing that Kitty would know whom she meant. "She said, 'What! are n't you going to dance with the princess Shcherbatskaya?"

"Akh! it's all one to me," said Kitty.

No one besides herself realized her position. No one knew that she had refused a man whom perhaps she loved,—refused him because she preferred some one else.

The Countess Nordstone went in search of Korsunsky, who was her partner for the mazurka, and sent him to invite Kitty.

Kitty danced in the first figure, and fortunately was not required to talk, because Korsunsky was obliged to be ubiquitous, making his arrangements in his little kingdom. Vronsky and Anna were sitting nearly opposite to her: she saw them sometimes near, sometimes at a distance, as their turn brought them into the figures; and as she watched them, she felt more and more certain that her unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone even in the midst of the crowded ball-room; and on Vronsky's face, usually so impassive and calm, she remarked that mingled expression of humility and fear, which strikes one in an intelligent dog, conscious of having done wrong.

If Anna smiled, his smile replied; if she became thoughtful, he looked serious. An almost supernatural power seemed to attract Kitty's gaze to Anna's face. She was charming in her simple black velvet; charming were her round arms, clasped by bracelets; charming her firm neck, encircled with pearls; charming her dark, curly locks breaking from restraint; charming the slow and graceful movements of her small feet and hands; charming her lovely face, full of animation; but in all this charm there was something terrible and cruel.

Kitty admired her more than ever, and ever more and more her pain increased. She felt crushed, and her face told the story. When Vronsky passed her, in some figure of the mazurka, he hardly knew her, so much had she changed.