not for you.

Why do you make fun of me?’ replied Maryanka, but her look showed how certainly she knew he was not making fun.

‘Making fun? If you only knew how I — ’

The words sounded still more commonplace, they accorded still less with what he felt, but yet he continued, ‘I don’t know what I would not do for you — ’

‘Leave me alone, you pitch!’

But her face, her shining eyes, her swelling bosom, her shapely legs, said something quite different. It seemed to him that she understood how petty were all things he had said, but that she was superior to such considerations. It seemed to him she had long known all he wished and was