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And for all that, at the same point in her memories, the feeling

of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just at the

point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her, "Warm,

very warm, hot." "Well, what is it?" she said to herself

resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge. "What does it mean?

Am I afraid to look it straight in the face? Why, what is it? Can

it be that between me and this officer boy there exist, or can

exist, any other relations than such as are common with every

acquaintance?" She laughed contemptuously and took up her book

again; but now she was definitely unable to follow what she read.

She passed the paper-knife over the window pane, then laid its

smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and almost laughed aloud at

the feeling of delight that all at once without cause came over

her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained

tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg.