den daring, and would flow with generous ardour, but a draught would
blow from a half-closed window, and Anna Sergyevna would shrink into
herself, and feel plaintive and almost angry, and there was only one
thing she cared for at that instant--to get away from that horrid
draught.

Like all women who have not succeeded in loving, she wanted something,
without herself knowing what. Strictly speaking, she wanted nothing;
but it seemed to her that she wanted everything. She could hardly
endure the late Odintsov (she had married him from prudential motives,
though probably she would not have consented to become his wife if she
had not considered him a good sort of man), and had conceived a secret
repugnance for all men, whom she could only figure to herself as
slovenly, heavy, drowsy, and feebly importunate creatures. Once,
somewhere abroad, she had met a handsome young Swede, with a chivalrous
expression, with honest blue eyes under an open brow; he had made a
powerful impression on her, but it had not prevented her from going
back to Russia.

'A strange man this doctor!' she thought as she lay in her luxurious
bed on lace pillows under a light silk coverlet.... Anna Sergyevna had
inherited from her father a little of his inclination for splendour.
She had fondly loved her sinful but good-natured father, and he had
idolised her, used to joke with her in a friendly way as though she
were an equal, and to confide in her fully, to ask her advice. Her
mother she scarcely remembered.

'This doctor is a strange man!' she repeated to herself. She stretched,
smiled, clasped her hands behind her head, then ran her eyes over two
pages of a stupid French novel, dropped the book--and fell asleep, all
pure and cold, in her pure and fragrant linen.

The following morning Anna Sergyevna went off botanising with Bazarov
directly after lunch, and returned just before dinner; Arkady did not
go off anywhere, and spent about an hour with Katya. He was not bored
with her; she offered of herself to repeat the sonata of the day
before; but when Madame Odintsov came back at last, when he caught
sight of her, he felt an instantaneous pang at his heart. She came
through the garden with a rather tired step; her cheeks were glowing
and her eyes shining more brightly than usual under her round straw
hat. She was twirling in her fingers the thin stalk of a wildflower, a
light mantle had slipped down to her elbows, and the wide gray ribbons
of her