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¡°You see how he is,¡± said Anna Andreyevna, who had of late laid aside all her stiffness with me, and all her mistrust of me; ¡°that¡¯s how he always is with me; and yet he knows we understand all his tricks. Why should he keep up a pretence with me? Am I a stranger to him? He¡¯s just the same about his daughter. He might forgive her, you know, perhaps he even wants to forgive her. God knows! He cries at night, I¡¯ve heard him. But he keeps up outwardly. He¡¯s eaten up with pride. Ivan Petrovitch, my dear, tell me quick, where was he going?¡±
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