For a long while, a very long while it seemed to Levin, the sick man lay motionless.

But he was still alive, and from time to time he sighed.

Levin by now was exhausted from mental strain.

He felt that, with no mental effort, could he understand what it was that was _right_.

He could not even think of the problem of death itself, but with no will of his own thoughts kept coming to him of what he had to do next; closing the dead man's eyes, dressing him, ordering the coffin.