The days passed by. Zina�da became stranger and stranger, and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting in a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table. She drew herself up � her whole face was wet with tears.

‘Ah, you!’ she said with a cruel smile. ‘Come here.’

I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catching hold of my hair, began pulling it.

‘It hurts me,’ I said at last.

‘Ah! does it? And do you suppose nothing hurts me?’ she replied.

‘Ai!’ she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hair out. ‘What have I done? Poor M’sieu Voldemar!’