“I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as my future husband—never in my life. He is just as little to me as all the rest.”
Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.
“I did not expect that of you, Aglaya,” she said. “He is an impossible husband for you—I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out everyone who was in the room last night and kept him—that’s the sort of man he is, in my opinion!”
Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was all settled in Aglaya’s mind. She was only waiting for the hour that would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.