apparent cheerfulness (it seemed to Countess Márya that he did it on purpose to vex her), “I have been on my feet since six this morning. Tomorrow I shall have to suffer, so today I’ll go and rest.”
And without a word to his wife he went to the little sitting room and lay down on the sofa.
“That’s always the way,” thought Countess Márya. “He talks to everyone except me. I see … I see that I am repulsive to him, especially when I am in this condition.”
She looked down at her expanded figure and in the glass at her pale, sallow, emaciated face in which her eyes now looked larger than ever.
And everything annoyed her—Denísov’s shouting and laughter, Natásha’s talk, and especially a quick glance Sónya gave her.
Sónya was always the first excuse Countess Márya found for feeling irritated.
Having sat