THE KISS OF THE UNBORN
"Why, of course," said she. "If your mother is ill, how could you stay! Write to me every day; it will be so dull when you are gone."
She went with him as usual as far as the high road, and then home again along the forest path, sad at his departure, yet certain of his return. And he had never come back.
She had received two or three letters from him, strange letters, confused, full of half-expressed feelings, hints of something she could not understand. Then no more. Nadezhda Alexevna began to realise that he had ceased to love her. And when the summer had come to an end she heard a chance conversation which told her of his marriage.
"Why, haven't you heard? Last week. They went off to Nice for the honeymoon."
"Yes, he's fortunate. He's married a rich and beautiful girl."
"She has a large dowry, I suppose."
"Yes, indeed. Her father …"
Nadezhda Alexevna did not stay to hear about the father. She moved away.
She often remembered all that had happened afterwards. Not that she wished to remember—she had striven to stifle recollection and to forget the past. It had all been
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