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 gleaming veil of enchantment over all the objects of its desire.

And so, becoming accustomed little by little to the pleasant thought of being beloved, accustomed to this amusing mixture of the two Lohengrins—one of the opera of the wise magician Wagner, the other of the everyday life in Pea Street—Mashenka felt at length that she was in love. The amusing mystery enveloping his actual life became less of a hindrance to her.

After some time Lohengrin guessed that Mashenka had begun to care for him, and one day he said to her:

"Marya Constantìnovna, you can make me the happiest of men—I beg you to consent to be my wife."

Then, as if she were not yet ready to be asked such a question, Mashenka was seized with a profound alarm. The dark and dreadful suspicions sleeping in her soul were roused and they were too strong for her. She looked at Lohengrin in terror and thought:

"Why does he hide his occupation from me—it must be something shameful and contemptible. Perhaps he is a spy or a hangman!"

Not long before, Mashenka had read in a newspaper an account of a young workman