“Very well,” she said all at once. “But I will tell you it from the beginning. You know how I was married. With the education mamma gave us I was more than innocent, I was stupid. I knew nothing. I know they say men tell their wives of their former lives, but Stiva”⁠—she corrected herself⁠—“Stepan Arkadyevitch told me nothing. You’ll hardly believe it, but till now I imagined that I was the only woman he had known. So I lived eight years. You must understand that I was so far from suspecting infidelity, I regarded it as impossible, and then⁠—try to imagine it⁠—with such ideas, to find out suddenly all the horror, all the loathsomeness.⁠ ⁠… You must try and understand me. To be fully convinced of one’s happiness, and all at once.⁠ ⁠…” continued Dolly, holding back her sobs, “to get a letter⁠ ⁠… his letter to his mistress, my governess. No, it’s too awful!” She hastily pulled out her handkerchief and hid her face in it. “I can understand being carried away by feeling,” she went on after a brief silence, “but deliberately, slyly deceiving me⁠ ⁠… and with whom?⁠ ⁠… To go on being my husband together with her⁠ ⁠… it’s awful! You can’t understand.⁠ ⁠…”