how unnaturally cordial her
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young Prince Tcharsky, who had, with great want of tact, flirted with her the day before they left
Moscow. "He's jealous," she thought. "Goodness! how sweet and silly he is! He's jealous of me! If
he knew that I think no more of them than of Piotr the cook," she thought, looking at his head and
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red neck with a feeling of possession strange to herself. "Though it's a pity to take him from his
work (but he has plenty of time!), I must look at his face; will he feel I'm looking at him? I wish
he'd turn round...I'll WILL him
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influence of her gaze.
"Yes, they draw away all the sap and give a false appearance of prosperity," he muttered, stopping
to write, and, feeling that she was looking at him and smiling, he looked round.
"Well?" he queried, smiling, and getting up.
"He looked round," she thought.
"It's
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