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 "I know about you," said she, smiling at Levin; "you have the reputation of being only an indifferent citizen, but I have always defended you as well as I could."

"How have you defended me?"

"That has depended on the attacks. But suppose we have some tea," said she. She rose and took a morocco-bound book which was lying on the table.

"Give it to me, Anna Arkadyevna," said Vorkuyef, pointing to the book, "it is well worth while."

"No; it's all so unfinished!"

"I have told him about it," remarked Stepan Arkadyevitch, indicating Levin.

"You were wrong. My writings are like those little baskets and carvings made by prisoners, which Liza Myertsalova used to sell. .... She managed the prisons for our society," said she, turning to Levin. "Those unfortunates used to do perfect miracles of patience."

Levin was struck by still a new feature in this remarkable, fascinating woman. Besides wit, grace, beauty, she had sincerity. She did not wish to conceal the thorns of her situation. As she said that she sighed, and her face suddenly assumed a stern expression, as if it were changed to stone. With this expression on her face, she was even more beautiful than before. But that expression was new; it was entirely alien to that which a few moments before had seemed to irradiate happiness, and which the artist had managed to reproduce in the portrait. Levin looked once more at the portrait and at the original of it, while Anna took her brother's arm, and a feeling of tenderness and pity came over him, surprising even himself. She let the two gentlemen pass into the parlor, and remained behind to speak to Stiva.

"What is she talking with him about?—the divorce? Vronsky? what he was doing at the club? about me?" thought Levin; and he was so stirred that he heard nothing that Vorkuyef was saying to him about the merits of the story for children which Anna Arkadyevna had written.

During tea, a pleasant conversation full of ideas was