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"I'm a wicked woman, a lost woman," she thought; "but I don't

like lying, I can't endure falsehood, while as for him (her

husband) it's the breath of his life-falsehood. He knows all

about it, he sees it all; what does he care if he can talk so

calmly? If he were to kill me, if he were to kill Vronsky, I

might respect him. No, all he wants is falsehood and propriety,"

Anna said to herself, not considering exactly what it was she

wanted of her husband, and how she would have liked to see him

behave. She did not understand either that Alexey

Alexandrovitch's peculiar loquacity that day, so exasperating to

her, was merely the expression of his inward distress and

uneasiness.