“It’s all over, it’s all over!” she cried, not noticing that the pillow had slipped on to the floor again.  “For God’s sake, for God’s sake!”

Probably roused by her cries, the guest and the servants were now awake; next day all the neighbourhood would know that she had been in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch.  She made an effort to restrain herself, but her sobs grew louder and louder every minute.

“For God’s sake,” she cried in a voice not like her own, and not knowing why she cried it.  “For God’s sake!”

She felt as though the bed were heaving under her and her feet were entangled in the bed-clothes.  Pyotr Dmitritch, in his dressing-gown, with a candle in his hand, came into the bedroom.

“Olya, hush!” he said.

She raised herself, and kneeling up in bed, screwing up her eyes at the light, articulated through her sobs: 

“Understand . . . understand! . . . .”

She wanted to tell him that she was tired to death by the party, by his falsity, by her own falsity, that it had all worked together, but she could only articulate: 

“Understand . . . understand!”

“Come, drink!” he said, handing her some water.

She took the glass obediently and began drinking, but the water splashed over and was spilt on her arms, her throat and knees.

“I must look horribly unseemly,” she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch put her back in bed without a word, and covered her with the quilt, then he took the candle and went out.

“For God’s sake!” Olga Mihalovna cried again.  “Pyotr, understand, understand!”

Suddenly something gripped her in the lower part of her body and back with such violence that her wailing was cut short, and she bit the pillow from the pain.  But the pain let her go again at once, and she began sobbing again.

The maid came in, and arranging the quilt over her, asked in alarm: 

“Mistress, darling, what is the matter?”

“Go out of the room,” said Pyotr Dmitritch sternly, going up to the bed.

“Understand . . . understand! . . .”  Olga Mihalovna began.

“Olya, I entreat you, calm yourself,” he said.  “I did not mean to hurt you.  I would not have gone out of the room if I had known it would have hurt you so much; I simply felt depressed.  I tell you, on my honour . . .”

“Understand! . . .  You were lying, I was lying. . . .”

“I understand. . . .  Come, come, that’s enough!  I understand,” said Pyotr Dmitritch tenderly, sitting down on her bed.  “You said that in anger; I quite understand.  I swear to God I love you beyond anything on earth, and when I married you I never once thought of your being rich.  I loved you immensely, and that’s all . . .  I assure you.  I have never been in want of money or felt the value of it, and so I cannot feel the difference between your fortune and mine.  It always seemed to me we were equally well off.  And that I have been deceitful in little things, that . . . of course, is true.  My life has hitherto been arranged in such a frivolous way that it has somehow been impossible to get on without paltry lying.  It weighs on me, too, now. . . .  Let us leave off talking about it, for goodness’ sake!”