at came from the other end of the cell.

These sounds were the suppressed sobbing of the red-haired woman. She
wept because she had just been abused, beaten, and got no wine, for
which she so yearned. She also wept because her whole life was one
round of abuse, scorn, insults and blows. She meant to draw some
consolation from the recollection of her first love for the factory
hand, Fedka Molodenkoff, but, recalling this first love, she also
recalled the manner of its ending. The end of it was that this
Molodenkoff, while in his cups, by way of jest, smeared her face with
vitriol, and afterward laughed with his comrades as he watched her
writhing in pain. She remembered this, and she pitied herself; and,
thinking that no one heard her, she began to weep, and wept like a
child--moaning, snuffling and swallowing salty tears.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Nekhludoff rose the following morning with a consciousness that some
change had taken place within him, and before he could recall what it
was he already knew that it was good and important.

"Katiousha--the trial. Yes, and I must stop lying, and tell all the
truth." And what a remarkable coincidence! That very morning finally
came the long-expected letter of Maria Vasilievna, the wife of the
marshal of the nobility--that same letter that he wanted so badly now.
She gave him his liberty and wished him happiness in his proposed
marriage.

"Marriage!" he repeated ironically. "How far I am from it!"

And his determination of the day before to tell everything to her
husband, to confess his sin before him, and to hold himself ready for
any satisfaction he might demand, came to his mind. But this morning
it did not seem to him so easy as it had yesterday. "And then, what is
the good of making a man miserable? If he asks me, I will tell him;
but to call on him specially for that purpose---- No, it is not
necessary."

It seemed to him equally difficult this morning to tell all the truth
to Missy. He thought it would be offering an insult. It was
inevitable, as in all worldly affairs, that there should remain
something unexpressed but understood. One thing, however, he decided
upon this morning--that he would not go there, and would tell the
truth when asked. But in his relations toward Katiousha there was to
be nothing unsaid.

"I will go to the jail--will tell her, beg of her to forgive me. And,
if necessary--yes, if necessary--I will marry her," he thought.

The idea tha