Only I always waited for the time when I should have all of her, when I should hold her against all the world.

Then, after four years of this new life, she quite suddenly died.

Again in that little house, on a 'white night,' just as when I had at first met her, the purple curtains hanging in the little street, the _isvostchik_ sleeping, the clocks in the house chattering in their haste to keep up with time....
Only two months before the outbreak of the war she caught cold, for a week suffered from pneumonia and died.

At the last Andrey Vassilievitch and I were alone with her.

He had her hand in his but her last cry was 'Victor,' and as she died I felt as though, at last, after that long waiting, she had leapt into my arms for ever....
"After her death for many weeks, she was with me more completely than she had been during her lifetime.