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Three Deaths "Oh, that's all right," replied the doctor.

"And what about her?" asked the husband with a sigh, lowering his voice and raising his brows.

"I say that she cannot go as far as Italy—please God she may reach Moscow—especially this weather."

"My God, my God! What's to be done, then?"—and the husband put his hand over his eyes.

"Here!" he added, addressing the man who was bringing the drink.

"The idea must be given up," answered the doctor, shrugging his shoulders.

"But tell me what I am to do!" insisted the husband. "You know I have done everything to prevent her. I spoke about my means and about the children, whom we should have to leave behind, and about my affairs—and she would listen to nothing. She makes her plans for living abroad just as if she were quite well. And to tell her of her real condition!—well, you might just as well kill her outright."

"She's as good as dead already, you ought to know that, Vasily Dmitrievich. A person can't live when he has no lungs, and lungs can't grow again. It is melancholy, miserable. But what's to be done? All that you and I can now do is to take care that the rest of the road is as easy as possible. This is now a case for a priest."

"Ah, my God! you understand my position, how can I remind her of her last will! Come what may, I cannot tell her that. You know how good she is. . ."

"Nevertheless, you ought to try and persuade her