but only the pure in heart,'-- or something of that kind--'comprehend you'-- that is, no--'love you.' But I am not a poet.

I'm not equal to it! Something for that kind, though, something lofty." Lemm pushed his hat on to the back of his head; in the dim twilight of the clear night his face looked paler and younger.
"'And you too,'" he continued, his voice gradually sinking, "'ye know who loves, who can love, because, pure ones, ye alone can comfort'...
No, that's not it at all! I am not a poet," he said, "but something of that sort." "I am sorry I am not a poet," observed Lavretsky.
"Vain dreams!" replied Lemm, and he buried himself in the corner of the carriage.

He closed his eyes as though he were disposing himself to sleep.
A few instants passed...

Lavretsky listened...

"'Stars, pure stars, love,'" muttered the old man.
"Love," Lavretsky repeated to himself.