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 revealed everything to Ivan Il'ich. His brother-in-law opened his mouth to sigh, and restrained himself. This movement confirmed everything.

"Well, I've altered a bit, eh?"

"Yes . . . there's a change."

And however much Ivan Il'ich might try to bring his brother-in-law to converse on the subject of his appearance, his brother-in-law continued to be reticent Praskov'ya Thedorovna arrived, and the brother-in-law went to her. Ivan Il'ich locked the door and began to look at himself in the mirror — full-face first of all, and after that sideways. He took up his portrait, in which he was represented with his wife, and compared the portrait with what he saw in the glass. The change was enormous. Then he stripped up his shirt-sleeve to the elbow, regarded it, let down his sleeve again, sat down on the ottoman, and grew blacker than night.

"It must not be, it must not be," he said to himself, sprang up, went to the table, opened some public document, began to read it, but could not go on with it. He opened the door and went into the saloon. The door leading to the drawing-room was closed. He approached it on tip-toe and began to listen.

"No, you exaggerate," Praskov'ya Thedorovna was saying.

"Exaggerate? Why, surely you can see for yourself ? He's a dead man, I tell you; look at his eyes! No light in 'em. What's the matter with him?"

"Nobody knows. Nikolaev (this was the