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Chapter 3

           Sowhywasshesurprised?Ha,ha,ha!”

           Hepulledthenoteoutandkissedit;thenpausedandreflected.“Howstrangeitallis!howstrange!”hemuttered,melancholyenoughnow.Inmomentsofgreatjoy,heinvariablyfeltasensationofmelancholycomeoverhimhecouldnottellwhy.

           Helookedintentlyaroundhim,andwonderedwhyhehadcomehere;hewasverytired,soheapproachedthebenchandsatdownonit.Aroundhimwasprofoundsilence;themusicintheVauxhallwasover.Theparkseemedquiteempty,thoughitwasnot,inreality,laterthanhalf-pasteleven.Itwasaquiet,warm,clearnightarealPetersburgnightofearlyJune;butinthedenseavenue,wherehewassitting,itwasalmostpitchdark.

           Ifanyonehadcomeupatthismomentandtoldhimthathewasinlove,passionatelyinlove,hewouldhaverejectedtheideawithastonishment,and,perhaps,withirritation.AndifanyonehadaddedthatAglaya’snotewasalove-letter,andthatitcontainedanappointmenttoalover’srendezvous,hewouldhaveblushedwithshameforthespeaker,and,probably,havechallengedhimtoaduel.

           Allthiswouldhavebeenperfectlysincereonhispart.Hehadneverforamomententertainedtheideaofthepossibilityofthisgirllovinghim,orevenofsuchathingashimselffallinginlovewithher.Thepossibilityofbeinglovedhimself,“amanlikeme,”asheputit,herankedamongridiculoussuppositions.

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