Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume V).djvu/158

 XIII felt much annoyed with himself, as though he had lost money at roulette, or failed to keep his word. An inward voice told him that he—on the eve of marriage, a man of sober sense, not a boy—ought not to have given way to the promptings of curiosity, nor the allurements of recollection. 'Much need there was to go!' he reflected. 'On her side simply flirtation, whim, caprice. . . . She's bored, she's sick of everything, she clutched at me. . . as some one pampered with dainties will suddenly long for black bread. . . well, that 's natural enough. . . . But why did I go? Can I feel anything but contempt for her?' This last phrase he could not utter even in thought without an effort. . . . 'Of course, there 's no kind of danger, and never could be,' he pursued his reflections. 'I know whom I have to deal with. But still one ought not to play with fire. . . . I'll never set my foot in her place again.' Litvinov dared not, or could not