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 anything or anybody; she would only feel apathetic and bored. Then she would look forward to the next meeting. And next time she would be disappointed again.

And yet in spite of this some one did come and take possession of Mashenka's soul—a rather ugly young man, short and awkward, and delicate in health, with weak eyes that seemed to blink continuously, thin reddish hair, meagre reddish whiskers, and scanty beard. He dressed himself neatly and carefully, wore a cornelian stone ring on his finger and a pearl pin in his mauve or green necktie, but his dress showed neither special taste nor abundance of means.

For a long time Mashenka did not know his real name nor his occupation. She called him by a strange nickname—taken from the opera,—Lohengrin.

"My Lohengrin is coming to-day," she used to say to her mother.

"That's your Lohengrin's ring," her mother would say when they heard a timid, uncertain little sound from the door-bell.

"Your Lohengrin's a silly," said her little brother Serezha frankly. He liked to tease Mashenka sometimes. Only occasionally, of course. He was only twelve years old, and just a little afraid of his sister.