" They're all living, they're all enjoying life," Darya Alexandrovna still mused when she had passed the peasant women and was driving uphill again at a trot, seated comfortably on the soft springs of the old carriage, "while I, let out, as it were from prison, from the world of worries that fret me to death, am only looking about me now for an instant.

They all live; those peasant women and my sister Natalia and Varenka and Anna, whom I am going to see--all, but not I.

"And they attack Anna.

What for? am I any better? I have, anyway, a husband I love--not as I should like to love him, still I do love him, while Anna never loved hers.

How is she to blame? She wants to live.