Then he fell to thinking of Lisa, that she could hardly love Panshin, that if he had met her under different circumstances--God knows what might have come of it; that he undertook Lemm though Lisa had no words of "her own:" but that, he thought, was not true; she had words of her own.

"Don't speak light of that," came back to Lavretsky's mind.

He rode a long way with his head bent in thought, then drawing himself up, he slowly repeated aloud: "And I have burnt all I adored, And now I adore all that I burnt." Then he gave his horse a switch with the whip, and galloped all the way home.
Dismounting from his horse, he looked round for the last time with an involuntary smile of gratitude.

Night, still, kindly night stretched over hills and valleys; from afar, out of its fragrant depths--God knows whence--whether from the heavens or the earth--rose a soft, gentle warmth.

Lavretsky sent a last greeting to Lisa, and ran up the steps.
The next day passed rather dully.