“It’s all over, it’s all over!” she cried, not noticing that the pillow had slipped on to the floor again. “For God’s sake, for God’s sake!”

Probably roused by her cries, the guest and the servants were now awake; next day all the neighbourhood would know that she had been in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch. She made an effort to restrain herself, but her sobs grew louder and louder every minute.

“For God’s sake,” she cried in a voice not like her own, and not knowing why she cried it. “For God’s sake!”

She felt as though the bed were heaving under her and her feet were entangled in the bedclothes. Pyotr Dmitritch, in his dressing gown, with a candle in his hand, came into the bedroom.

“Olya, hush!” he said.

She raised herself, and kneeling up in bed, screwing up her eyes at the light, articulated through her sobs:

“Understand⁠ ⁠… understand!⁠ ⁠…”

She wanted to tell him that she was tired to death by the party, by his falsity, by her own falsity, that it had all worked together, but she could only articulate:

“Understand⁠ ⁠… understand!”

“Come, drink!” he said, handing her some water.

She took the glass obediently and began drinking, but the water splashed over and was spilt on her arms, her throat and knees.

“I must look horribly unseemly,” she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch put her back in bed without a word, and covered her with the quilt, then he took the candle and went out.

“For God’s sake!” Olga Mihalovna cried again. “Pyotr, understand, understand!”