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 heated brow against a cool watering-pot, standing on the balustrade, and with both her beautiful hands laden with rings, which he knew so well, she was holding the watering-pot. The beauty of her figure, her head, her neck, her hands, always caused in Vronsky a new feeling of surprise. He stopped and looked at her in ecstasy. But as soon as he proceeded to take another step and come nearer to her, she felt his approach, pushed away the watering-pot, and turned to him her glowing face.

"What is the matter? Are you ill?" said he, in French, as he approached her. He felt a desire to run to her, but, remembering that there might be witnesses, he looked toward the balcony door and turned red, as he always turned red when he felt that he ought to be ashamed of himself and dread to be seen.

"No; I am well," said Anna, rising, and warmly pressing the hand that he offered her. "I did not expect .... you."

"Bozhe moï! how cold your hands are!"

"You startled me," said she. "I was alone, waiting for Serozha. He went out for a walk; they will come back this way."

But though she tried to be calm, her lips trembled.

"Forgive me for coming, but I could not let the day go by without seeing you," he continued, in French, as he always spoke, thus avoiding the impossible vui, you, and the dangerous tui, thou, of the Russian.

"What have I to forgive? I am so glad!"

"But you are ill, or sad?" said he, bending over her and still holding her hand. "What were you thinking about?"

"Always about one thing," she replied, with a smile.

She told the truth. If at any moment she had been asked what she was thinking about, she could have made the infallible reply, that she was thinking about one thing: her happiness and her unhappiness. Just as he had surprised her, she was thinking about this: she was thinking how it was that for some, for Betsy, for example,—for she knew about her love-affair with Tushkievitch, though it was a secret from society in