The time dragged on fearfully slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay down in her clothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank into a doze. She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor to ceiling with a huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get the iron out they would all be lighthearted and happy. Waking, she realized that it was not the iron but Dymov’s illness that was weighing on her.

“ Nature morte , port⁠ ⁠…” she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again. “Sport⁠ ⁠… Kurort⁠ ⁠… and what of Shrek? Shrek⁠ ⁠… trek⁠ ⁠… wreck.⁠ ⁠… And where are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord, save⁠ ⁠… spare! Shrek⁠ ⁠… trek⁠ ⁠…”

And again the iron was there.⁠ ⁠… The time dragged on slowly, though the clock on the lower storey struck frequently. And bells were continually ringing as the doctors arrived.⁠ ⁠… The housemaid came in with an empty glass on a tray, and asked, “Shall I make the bed, madam?” and getting no answer, went away.

The clock below struck the hour. She dreamed of the rain on the Volga; and again someone came into her bedroom, she thought a stranger. Olga Ivanovna jumped up, and recognized Korostelev.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“About three.”

“Well, what is it?”

“What, indeed!⁠ ⁠… I’ve come to tell you he is passing.⁠ ⁠…”

He gave a sob, sat down on the bed beside her, and wiped away the tears with his sleeve. She could not grasp it at once, but turned cold all over and began slowly crossing herself.