"And you yourself, do you love him?" he asked.
"Loving or not loving, what does it matter? I have given up all that. And then Valdemar Simonson is quite an exceptional man."
"Yes, of course," Nekhludoff began. "He is a splendid man, and I think--"
But she again interrupted him, as if afraid that he might say too much or that she should not say all. "No, Dmitri Ivanovitch, you must forgive me if I am not doing what you wish," and she looked at him with those unfathomable, squinting eyes of hers. "Yes, it evidently must be so. You must live, too."
She said just what he had been telling himself a few moments before, but he no longer thought so now and felt very differently. He was not only ashamed, but felt sorry to lose all he was losing with her. "I did not expect this," he said.
"Why should you live here and suffer? You have suffered enough."
"I have not suffered. It was good for me, and I should like to go on serving you if I could."
"We do not want anything," she said, and looked at him.
"You have done so much for me as it is. If it had not been for you--" She wished to say more, but her voice trembled.
"You certainly have no reason to thank me," Nekhludoff said.
"Where is the use of our reckoning? God will make up our accounts," she said, and her black eyes began to glisten with the tears that filled them.
"What a good woman you are," he said.
"I good?" she said through her tears, and a pathetic smile lit up her face.
"Are you ready?" the Englishman asked.
"Directly," replied Nekhludoff and asked her about Kryltzoff.
She got over her emotion and quietly told him all she knew.
Kryltzoff was very weak and had been sent into the infirmary.