“ If we are going , though, it’s time to start,” she said, glancing at her watch, a gift from her father; and with a scarcely perceptible meaning smile to the young man, referring to something only known to themselves, she got up with a rustle of her skirts.
They all got up, said goodbye, and went away. When they were gone, Ivan Ilyitch fancied he was easier; there was no falsity—that had gone away with them, but the pain remained. That continual pain, that continual terror, made nothing harder, nothing easier. It was always worse.
Again came minute after minute, hour after hour, still the same and still no end, and ever more terrible the inevitable end.
“Yes, send Gerasim,” he said in answer to Pyotr’s question.