But—­wonderful to relate—­so far from repulsing him, this only drew him to her by some new peculiar force.  He felt that he ought to awaken her spirit; that it was extremely difficult to do so; but the very difficulty of the undertaking attracted him.  He experienced a feeling toward her which he had never experienced before, either toward her or any one else, and in which there was nothing personal.  He desired nothing of her for himself, and only wished her to to cease to be what she was now, and become what she had been before.

“Katiousha, why do you speak thus?  I know you, I remember you as you were in Panoff——­”

But she did not yield—­she would not yield.

“Why recall the past!” she said dryly, frowning even more.

“Because I wish to efface, to expiate my sin.  Katiousha——­” he began, and was about to tell her that he would marry her, but he met her eyes in which he read something so terrible, rude and repulsive that he could not finish.

At that moment the visitors began to take leave.  The inspector approached Nekhludoff and told him that the time for interviewing was ended.  Maslova rose and submissively waited to be dismissed.

“Good-by.  I have a great deal to tell you yet, but, as you see, I cannot do it now,” said Nekhludoff, and extended his hand.  “I will call again.”

“I think you have said everything——­”

She extended her hand, but did not press his.

“No.  I will try to see you again, where we can speak together, and then I will tell you something very important,” said Nekhludoff.

“Well, all right,” she said, smiling as she used to do when she wished to please a man.

“You are more to me than a sister,” said Nekhludoff.

“Funny,” she repeated, and, shaking her head, she went behind the grating.

CHAPTER XLII.

Nekhludoff expected that at the first meeting Katiousha, learning of his intention to serve her, and of his repentance, would be moved to rejoicing, would become again Katiousha, but to his surprise and horror, he saw that Katiousha was no more; that only Maslova remained.

It surprised him particularly that not only was Maslova not ashamed of her condition, but, on the contrary, she seemed to be content with, and even took pride in it.  And yet it could not be different.

It is usually thought that a thief or murderer, acknowledging the harmfulness of his occupation, ought to be ashamed of it.  The truth is just the contrary.  People, whom fate and their sinful mistakes have placed in a given condition, form such views of life generally that they are enabled to consider their condition useful and morally tenable.  In order, however, to maintain such views they instinctively cling to such circles in which the same views are held.  We are surprised when we hear thieves boasting of their cleverness, or murderers boasting of their cruelty, but that is only because their circle is limited, and because we are outside of it.