my whole attention was centred upon not tripping over the carpet. Driving through the fresh air, however — where at first I muttered and fidgeted about so much that Kuzma, my coachman, asked me what was the matter — I soon found this feeling pass away, and began to meditate quietly concerning my love for Sonetchka and her relations with her mother, which had appeared to me rather strange. When, afterwards, I told my father that mother and daughter had not seemed on the best of terms with one another, he said:

“Yes, Madame leads the poor girl an awful life with her meanness. Yet,” added my father with a greater display of feeling than a man might naturally conceive for a mere relative, “she used to be such an original, dear, charming woman!

I cannot think