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 so now it was necessary to press the lady's hand, sigh, and say:

"Believe me, I Was indeed."

And he did so. And, having so done, he felt that the result desired was obtained — he was touched and she was touched.

"Come, before they begin in there, I want to have a little talk with you," said the widow; "give me your hand."

Peter Ivanovich gave his hand, and they proceeded together to an inner apartment, past Schwarz, who gave Peter Ivanovich a melancholy wink.

"It's all up with our game! Don't try and come, we'll look out for another partner," was what his waggish look said.

Peter Ivanovich sighed, still more deeply and sadly, and Praskov'ya Thedorovna gratefully pressed his arm. Entering her drawing-room, tapestried in pink cretonne, and lit by a dim shaded lamp, they sat down at the table, she on the divan, and Peter Ivanovich on a low seat with disordered springs and irregularly disposed down-stuffing, which gave way beneath him. Praskov'ya Thedorovna would have insisted on his taking another seat, but reflected that such insistence was incongruous with her situation, and thought better of it. As he sat down on the soft cushioned seat, Peter Ivanovich called to mind how Ivan Il'ich had designed the ornamentation of this room, and had consulted him about the pink cretonne with the green leaves. As she sat on the divan, after steering her way round the table (the whole drawing-room, by the way, was crowded with knick-knac