“Anna, it’s necessary for me to have a talk with you.”

“With me?” she said, wonderingly.  She came out from behind the door of the dressing room, and looked at him.  “Why, what is it?  What about?” she asked, sitting down.  “Well, let’s talk, if it’s so necessary.  But it would be better to get to sleep.”

Anna said what came to her lips, and marveled, hearing herself, at her own capacity for lying.  How simple and natural were her words, and how likely that she was simply sleepy!  She felt herself clad in an impenetrable armor of falsehood.  She felt that some unseen force had come to her aid and was supporting her.

“Anna, I must warn you,” he began.

“Warn me?” she said.  “Of what?”

She looked at him so simply, so brightly, that anyone who did not know her as her husband knew her could not have noticed anything unnatural, either in the sound or the sense of her words.  But to him, knowing her, knowing that whenever he went to bed five minutes later than usual, she noticed it, and asked him the reason; to him, knowing that every joy, every pleasure and pain that she felt she communicated to him at once; to him, now to see that she did not care to notice his state of mind, that she did not care to say a word about herself, meant a great deal.  He saw that the inmost recesses of her soul, that had always hitherto lain open before him, were closed against him.  More than that, he saw from her tone that she was not even perturbed at that, but as it were said straight out to him:  “Yes, it’s shut up, and so it must be, and will be in future.”  Now he experienced a feeling such as a man might have, returning home and finding his own house locked up.  “But perhaps the key may yet be found,” thought Alexey Alexandrovitch.

“I want to warn you,” he said in a low voice, “that through thoughtlessness and lack of caution you may cause yourself to be talked about in society.  Your too animated conversation this evening with Count Vronsky” (he enunciated the name firmly and with deliberate emphasis) “attracted attention.”

He talked and looked at her laughing eyes, which frightened him now with their impenetrable look, and, as he talked, he felt all the uselessness and idleness of his words.

“You’re always like that,” she answered, as though completely misapprehending him, and of all he had said only taking in the last phrase.  “One time you don’t like my being dull, and another time you don’t like my being lively.  I wasn’t dull.  Does that offend you?”

Alexey Alexandrovitch shivered, and bent his hands to make the joints crack.

“Oh, please, don’t do that, I do so dislike it,” she said.

“Anna, is this you?” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, quietly making an effort over himself, and restraining the motion of his fingers.

“But what is it all about?” she said, with such genuine and droll wonder.  “What do you want of me?”