Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume V).djvu/310

Rh 'Grigory Mihalitch. . . Grigory. . .' he heard a supplicating whisper behind him. He started Could it be Irina? Yes; it was she. Wrapped in her maid's shawl, a travelling hat on her dishevelled hair, she was standing on the platform, and gazing at him with worn and weary eyes. 'Come back, come back, I have come for you,' those eyes were saying. And what, what were they not promising? She did not move, she had not power to add a word; everything about her, even the disorder of her dress, everything seeemedseemed [sic] entreating forgiveness Litvinov was almost beaten, scarcely could he keep from rushing to her But the tide to which he had surrendered himself reasserted itself  He jumped into the carriage, and turning round, he motioned Irina to a place beside him. She understood him. There was still time. One step, one movement, and two lives made one for ever would have been hurried away into the uncertain distance. While she wavered, a loud whistle sounded and the train moved off. Litvinov sank back, while Irina moved staggering to a seat, and fell on it, to the immense astonishment of a supernumerary diplomatic official who chanced to be lounging about the railway station. He was slightly acquainted