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 "Who can he be, this red-haired Lohengrin?"

But at length she began to get tired of it. One day when Lohengrin was walking close behind her in the street Mashenka turned sharply round, went up to him, and said:

"What is it you want? Why do you follow me every day?"

Her cheeks were crimson and her voice trembled a little as she spoke; her hands, gloved and hidden away inside her muff, were hot and shaking. It seemed to her that even her shoulders under her thick winter dress must be shaking and crimson too, and that a fever of trembling ran through her whole body.

The eyes of the young man looked guiltily away from her. He raised his hat, then put it on again, and bowing awkwardly, began to speak in a pleasant though slightly hoarse voice, as if he had a cold.

"I beg your pardon, please forgive me, Marya Constantìnovna."

"However do you know my name?" cried Mashenka angrily.

She was astonished to find that the young man's voice, which she heard now for the first time, had in it a slight reminiscence of