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"Ah, how horrid!" he said to himself, looking up once more at thehalf-naked woman, with the splendid marble shoulders and arms,and the triumphant smile on her lips. "Oh, how horrid!" The baredshoulders of the portrait reminded him of another, a young woman,whom he had seen exposed in the same way a few days before. Itwas Missy, who had devised an excuse for calling him into herroom just as she was ready to go to a ball, so that he should seeher in her ball dress. It was with disgust that he remembered herfine shoulders and arms. "And that father of hers, with hisdoubtful past and his cruelties, and the bel-esprit her mother,with her doubtful reputation." All this disgusted him, and alsomade him feel ashamed. "Shameful and horrid; horrid and shameful!"

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"No, no," he thought; "freedom from all these false relationswith the Korchagins and Mary Vasilievna and the inheritance andfrom all the rest must be got. Oh, to breathe freely, to goabroad, to Rome and work at my picture! He remembered the doubtshe had about his talent for art. "Well, never mind; only just tobreathe freely. First Constantinople, then Rome. Only just to getthrough with this jury business, and arrange with the advocatefirst."

Then suddenly there arose in his mind an extremely vivid pictureof a prisoner with black, slightly-squinting eyes, and how shebegan to cry when the last words of the prisoners had been heard;and he hurriedly put out his cigarette, pressing it into theash-pan, lit another, and began pacing up and down the room. Oneafter another the scenes he had lived through with her rose inhis mind. He recalled that last interview with her. He rememberedthe white dress and blue sash, the early mass. "Why, I loved her,really loved her with a good, pure love, that night; I loved hereven before: yes, I loved her when I lived with my aunts thefirst time and was writing my composition." And he rememberedhimself as he had been then. A breath of that freshness, youthand fulness of life seemed to touch him, and he grew painfullysad. The difference between what he had been then and what he wasnow, was enormous,just as great, if not greater than thedifference between Katusha in church that night, and theprostitute who had been carousing with the merchant and whom theyjudged this morning. Then he was free and fearless, andinnumerable possibilities lay ready to open before him; now hefelt himself caught in the meshes of a stupid, empty, valueless,frivolous life, out of which he saw no means of extricatinghimself even if he wished to, which he hardly did. He rememberedhow proud he was at one time of his straightforwardness, how hehad made a rule of always speaking the truth, and really had beentruthful; and how he was now sunk deep in lies: in the mostdreadful of lies,lies considered as the truth by all whosurrounded him. And, as far as he could see, there was no way outof these lies. He had sunk in the mire, got used to it, indulgedhimself ing the child between her knees, began tosearch her head with deft fingers. "Why do you sell spirits?" shewent on. "Why? but what's one to feed the children on?" wiggle z

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These words brought back to Maslova's mind her craving for drink.

"A little vodka," she said to Korableva, wiping the tears withher sleeve and sobbing less frequently. wiggle y axis only

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