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 because her husband is dead. Now, that is comical, because they did not live happily together. But who is that? What a melancholy face!" he added, seeing an invalid sitting in a shop in cinnamon-colored paletot, with white pantaloons making strange folds around his emaciated legs. This gentleman had raised his straw hat, and bared his sparse curly hair and high sickly forehead, on which showed the red line made by the brim.

"That is Petrof, a painter," replied Kitty, with a blush; "and there is his wife," she added, indicating Anna Pavlovna, who, at their approach, had evidently made the excuse of running after one of their children playing in the street.

"Poor fellow! and what a pleasant face he has!" said the prince. "But why did you not go to him? He seemed anxious to speak to you."

"Well, let us go back to him," said Kitty, resolutely turning about. "How do you feel to-day?" she asked of Petrof.

Petrof arose, leaning on his cane, and looked timidly at the prince.

"This is my daughter," said the prince; "allow me to make your acquaintance."

The painter bowed and smiled, showing teeth of strangely dazzling whiteness.

"We expected you yesterday, princess," said he to Kitty.

He staggered as he spoke; and to conceal the fact that it was involuntary, he repeated the motion.

"I expected to come, but Varenka told me that Anna Pavlovna sent word that you were not going."

"That we were n't going?" said Petrof, troubled, and beginning to cough. Then, looking toward his wife, he called hoarsely, "Annetta! Annetta!" while the great veins on his thin white neck stood out like cords.

Anna Pavlovna drew near.

"How did you send word to the princess that we were not going?" he demanded angrily, in a whisper.

"Good-morning, princess," said Anna Pavlovna, with