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The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English

happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a

desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that

he ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same

thing. But what had he to be ashamed of? "What have I to be

ashamed of?" she asked herself in injured surprise. She laid down

the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly gripping

the paper-cutter in both hands. There was nothing. She went over

all her Moscow recollections. All were good, pleasant. She

remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of slavish

adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there was nothing

shameful.