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 Levin saw that she was suffering physically as well as morally, although she would not confess it.

The sentiment of death which had been aroused in all by his farewell to life that night when he had summoned his brother was mightily weakened. All knew that he would inevitably and speedily reach the end, that he was already half dead. They all felt that the sooner he died the better it would be; yet, concealing this, they still gave him medicines from vials, sent for new medicines and doctors, and they deceived him and themselves and one another; all this was falsehood, vile, humiliating, blasphemous falsehood. And this falsehood was more painful to Konstantin than to the others, because he loved his brother more deeply, and because nothing was more contrary to his nature than lack of sincerity.

Levin, who had long felt the desire to reconcile his two brothers before Nikolaï should die, wrote to Sergyeï Ivanovitch. He replied, and Konstantin read the letter to the sick man: Sergyeï Ivanovitch could not come but he asked his brother's pardon in touching terms.

Nikolaï said nothing.

"What shall I write him?" asked Konstantin. "I hope you are not angry with him."

"No, not at all," replied Nikolaï, in a tone of vexation. "Write him to send me the doctor."

Three cruel days passed in this manner, the invalid remaining in the same condition. All those who saw him—the hotel waiter and the landlord and all the lodgers and the doctor and Marya Nikolayevna and Levin and Kitty—now wished only one thing, and that was his death. The invalid only did not express any such wish, but, on the contrary, continually grumbled because they did not send for the doctor; and he took his remedies and he spoke of life. Only at rare moments, when opium caused him for a little to be oblivious of his incessant agony, he would in a sort of doze confess what weighed on his mind even more heavily than on the others': "Akh! If this could only end!" or "When this is over."