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 of music and poetry,—all of whom were classed by him according to the most rigorous logic.

"Well! God be with you," she said, as they reached the door of the library. Near her husband's arm-chair were standing, as usual, the shade-lamp already lighted, and a carafe with water. "And I am going to write to Moscow."

Again he pressed her hand, and kissed it.

"Taken all in all, he is a good man; upright, excellent, remarkable in his sphere," said Anna to herself, on her way to her room, as if she was defending him from some one who accused him of not being lovable.

"But why do his ears stick out so? Or does he cut his hair too short?"

It was just midnight, and Anna was still sitting at her writing-table finishing a letter to Dolly, when measured steps in slippers were heard; and Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, who had washed his face and brushed his hair, came in with his book under his arm.

"Late, late," said he, with his usual smile, and passed on to his sleeping-room.

"And what right had he to look at him so?" thought Anna, recalling Vronsky's expression when he saw Alekseï Aleksandrovitch. Having undressed, she went to her room; but in her face there was none of that animation that shone in her eyes and in her smile at Moscow. On the contrary, the fire had either died away, or was somewhere far away and out of sight.

CHAPTER XXXIV

leaving Petersburg, Vronsky had installed his beloved friend and comrade, Petritsky, in his ample quarters on the Morskaya.

Petritsky was a young lieutenant, not particularly distinguished, and not only not rich, but over ears in debt. Every evening he came home tipsy, and he spent much of his time at the police courts, in search of strange