It was from Atchmianov.

She would live in some far remote place, would work and send Laevsky,
"anonymously," money, embroidered shirts, and tobacco, and would
return to him only in old age or if he were dangerously ill and
needed a nurse. When in his old age he learned what were her reasons
for leaving him and refusing to be his wife, he would appreciate
her sacrifice and forgive.

"You've got a long nose." That must be from the deacon or Kostya.

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna imagined how, parting from Laevsky, she would
embrace him warmly, would kiss his hand, and would swear to love
him all her life, all her life, and then, living in obscurity among
strangers, she would every day think that somewhere she had a friend,
some one she loved--a pure, noble, lofty man who kept a pure
memory of her.

"If you don't give me an interview to-day, I shall take measures,
I assure you on my word of honour. You can't treat decent people
like this; you must understand that." That was from Kirilin.

XIII

Laevsky received two notes; he opened one and read: "Don't go away,
my darling."

"Who could have written that?" he thought. "Not Samoylenko, of
course. And not the deacon, for he doesn't know I want to go away.
Von Koren, perhaps?"

The zoologist bent over the table and drew a pyramid. Laevsky fancied
that his eyes were smiling.

"Most likely Samoylenko . . . has been gossiping," thought Laevsky.

In the other note, in the same disguised angular handwriting with
long tails to the letters, was written: "Somebody won't go away on
Saturday."

"A stupid gibe," thought Laevsky. "Friday, Friday. . . ."

Something rose in his throat. He touched his collar and coughed,
but instead of a cough a laugh broke from his throat.

"Ha-ha-ha!" he laughed. "Ha-ha-ha! What am I laughing at? Ha-ha-ha!"

He tried to restrain himself, covered his mouth with his hand, but
the laugh choked his chest and throat, and his hand could not cover
his mouth.

"How stupid it is!" he thought, rolling with laughter. "Have I gone
out of my mind?"

The laugh grew shriller and shriller, and became something like the
bark of a lap-dog. Laevsky tried to get up from the table, but his
legs would not obey him and his right hand was strangely, without
his volition, dancing on the table, convulsively clutching and
crumpling up the bits of paper. He saw looks of wonder, Samoylenko's
grave, frightened face, and the eyes of the zoologist full of cold
irony and di