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 one,—I don't regret it, provided only I get better; and better, thank the Lord! I feel already."

Levin listened, and tried, but tried in vain, to find something to say. Apparently Nikolaï had somewhat the same feeling; he began to ask him about his affairs; and Konstantin was glad to speak about himself because he could speak without any pretense. He frankly related his plans and his experiments.

Nikolaï listened, but did not show the least interest.

These two men were so related to each other, and there was such a bond between them, that the slightest motion, the sound of their voices, spoke more clearly than all the words that they could say to each other.

At this moment both were thinking the same thought,—Nikolaï's illness and approaching death—dwarfing everything else into insignificance. Neither of them dared make the least allusion to it, and therefore all that either of them said failed to express what really occupied their minds—and was therefore false. Never before had Levin been so glad for an evening to end, for bedtime to come. Never, even when obliged to pay casual or official visits, had he felt so false and unnatural as that evening. And the consciousness of this unnaturalness, and his regret, made him more unnatural still. His heart was breaking to see his beloved dying brother; but he was obliged to dissemble, and to talk about various things as if his brother was going to live.

As at this time the house was damp and only his own room was warm, Levin offered to share it, with a partition between them, with his brother.

Nikolaï went to bed, and slept the uneasy sleep of an invalid, turning restlessly from side to side, and constantly coughing. Sometimes when he could not raise the phlegm, he would cry out, "Akh! Bozhe moï!" Sometimes, when the dampness choked him, he would grow angry, and cry out, "Ah, the devil!"

Levin could not sleep as he listened to him. His thoughts were varied, but they always returned to one theme,—death.