A peasant muttering something was working at the iron above her.

And the light by which she had read the book filled with troubles, falsehoods, sorrow, and evil, flared up more brightly than ever before, lighted up for her all that had been in darkness, flickered, began to grow dim, and was quenched forever.

Almost two months had passed.

The hot summer was half over, but Sergey Ivanovitch was only just preparing to leave Moscow.