ext moment
she became absorbed in contemplation of her little dog Susetka, which,
with its stumpy paws pattering to and fro upon the bridge in a mincing
fashion, seemed to say by the expression of its face that this was the
first time it had ever found itself out of doors. As for Dimitri, he
fell to discoursing very logically to his mother on the subject of how
no view can be beautiful of which the horizon is limited. Varenika
alone said nothing. Glancing at her, I saw that she was leaning over
the parapet of the bridge, her profile turned towards me, and gazing
straight in front of her. Something seemed to be interesting her deeply,
or even affecting her, since it was clear that she was oblivious to her
surroundings, and thinking neither of herself nor of the fact that any
one might be regarding her. In the expression of her large eyes there
was nothing but wrapt attention and quiet, concentrated thought, while
her whole attitude seemed so unconstrained and, for all her shortness,
so dignified that once more some recollection or another touched me and
once more I asked myself, "Is IT, then, beginning?" Yet again I assured
myself that I was already in love with Sonetchka, and that Varenika was
only an ordinary girl, the sister of my friend. Though she pleased me at
that moment, I somehow felt a vague desire to show her, by word or deed,
some small unfriendliness.

"I tell you what, Dimitri," I said to my friend as I moved nearer to
Varenika, so that she might overhear what I was going to say, "it seems
to me that, even if there had been no mosquitos here, there would have
been nothing to commend this spot; whereas "--and here I slapped my
cheek, and in very truth annihilated one of those insects--"it is simply
awful."

"Then you do not care for nature?" said Varenika without turning her
head.

"I think it a foolish, futile pursuit," I replied, well satisfied that I
had said something to annoy her, as well as something original. Varenika
only raised her eyebrows a little, with an expression of pity, and went
on gazing in front of her as calmly as before.

I felt vexed with her. Yet, for all that, the rusty, paint-blistered
parapet on which she was leaning, the way in which the dark waters of
the pond reflected the drooping branch of the overhanging birch tree (it
almost seemed to me as though branch and its reflection met), the rising
odour of the swamp, the feeling of crushed mosquito on my cheek, and
her absorbed