Besides all this she had very good taste, much tact, and above all she had repose. All that she did, she did unnoticed; only the results of what she did were observable, namely, that always and in everything there was cleanliness, order, and elegance. Liza had at once understood in what her husband’s ideal of life consisted, and she tried to attain, and in the arrangement and order of the house did attain, what he wanted. Children it is true were lacking, but there was hope of that also. In winter she went to Petersburg to see a specialist and he assured them that she was quite well and could have children.

And this desire was accomplished. By the end of the year she was again pregnant.

The one thing that threatened, not to say poisoned, their happiness was her jealousy⁠—a jealousy she restrained and did not exhibit, but from which she often suffered. Not only might Eugène not love any other woman⁠—because there was not a woman on earth worthy of him (as to whether she herself was worthy or not she never asked herself)⁠—but not a single woman might therefore dare to love him.