Absorbed in such thoughts, she passed five days without him, the five days that he was to be at the elections.

Walks, conversation with Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital, and, most of all, reading—­reading of one book after another—­filled up her time.  But on the sixth day, when the coachman came back without him, she felt that now she was utterly incapable of stifling the thought of him and of what he was doing there, just at that time her little girl was taken ill.  Anna began to look after her, but even that did not distract her mind, especially as the illness was not serious.  However hard she tried, she could not love this little child, and to feign love was beyond her powers.  Towards the evening of that day, still alone, Anna was in such a panic about him that she decided to start for the town, but on second thoughts wrote him the contradictory letter that Vronsky received, and without reading it through, sent it off by a special messenger.  The next morning she received his letter and regretted her own.  She dreaded a repetition of the severe look he had flung at her at parting, especially when he knew that the baby was not dangerously ill.  But still she was glad she had written to him.  At this moment Anna was positively admitting to herself that she was a burden to him, that he would relinquish his freedom regretfully to return to her, and in spite of that she was glad he was coming.  Let him weary of her, but he would be here with her, so that she would see him, would know of every action he took.

She was sitting in the drawing room near a lamp, with a new volume of Taine, and as she read, listening to the sound of the wind outside, and every minute expecting the carriage to arrive.  Several times she had fancied she heard the sound of wheels, but she had been mistaken.  At last she heard not the sound of wheels, but the coachman’s shout and the dull rumble in the covered entry.  Even Princess Varvara, playing patience, confirmed this, and Anna, flushing hotly, got up; but instead of going down, as she had done twice before, she stood still.  She suddenly felt ashamed of her duplicity, but even more she dreaded how he might meet her.  All feeling of wounded pride had passed now; she was only afraid of the expression of his displeasure.  She remembered that her child had been perfectly well again for the last two days.  She felt positively vexed with her for getting better from the very moment her letter was sent off.  Then she thought of him, that he was here, all of him, with his hands, his eyes.  She heard his voice.  And forgetting everything, she ran joyfully to meet him.

“Well, how is Annie?” he said timidly from below, looking up to Anna as she ran down to him.

He was sitting on a chair, and a footman was pulling off his warm over-boot.

“Oh, she is better.”

“And you?” he said, shaking himself.

She took his hand in both of hers, and drew it to her waist, never taking her eyes off him.