He threw a newspaper over the revolver.
“Again the same!” said she aghast when she had looked at him.
“What is the same?”
“The same terrible expression that you had before and would not explain to me. Jénya, dear one, tell me about it. I see that you are suffering. Tell me and you will feel easier. Whatever it may be, it will be better than for you to suffer so. Don’t I know that it is nothing bad?”
“You know? While …”
“Tell me, tell me, tell me. I won’t let you go.”
He smiled a piteous smile.
“Shall I?—No, it is impossible. And there is nothing to tell.”