As he listened to Petritsky's familiar stories in the familiar setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in, Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the careless Petersburg life that he was used to.

"Impossible!" he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing basin in which he had been sousing his healthy red neck.

"Impossible!" he cried, at the news that Laura had flung over Fertinghof and had made up to Mileev.

" And is he as stupid and pleased as ever? Well, and how's Buzulukov?" "Oh, there is a tale about Buzulukov--simply lovely!" cried Petritsky.

" You know his weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court ball.