The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that he ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing.  But what had he to be ashamed of?  “What have I to be ashamed of?” she asked herself in injured surprise.  She laid down the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly gripping the paper cutter in both hands.  There was nothing.  She went over all her Moscow recollections.  All were good, pleasant.  She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him:  there was nothing shameful.  And for all that, at the same point in her memories, the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just at the point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her, “Warm, very warm, hot.”  “Well, what is it?” she said to herself resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge.  “What does it mean?  Am I afraid to look it straight in the face?  Why, what is it?  Can it be that between me and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations than such as are common with every acquaintance?” She laughed contemptuously and took up her book again; but now she was definitely unable to follow what she read.  She passed the paper knife over the window pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and almost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without cause came over her.  She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg.  She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, something within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed vividness.  Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger.  “What’s that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast?  And what am I myself?  Myself or some other woman?” She was afraid of giving way to this delirium.  But something drew her towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will.  She got up to rouse herself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape of her warm dress.  For a moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing from it, was the stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but then everything grew blurred again....  That peasant with the long waist seemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and filling it with a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking and banging, as