Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry, sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out of the room. Prince Andréy turned to him, but the doctor gave him a bewildered look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and seeing Prince Andréy stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into his wife’s room. She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen her in five minutes before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of the cheeks, the same expression was on her charming childlike face with its upper lip covered with tiny black hair.

“I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you done to me?”⁠—said her charming, pathetic, dead face.

In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed in Márya Bogdánovna’s trembling white hands.