Never before had a day been passed in quarrel. Today was the
first time. And this was not a quarrel. It was the open
acknowledgment of complete coldness. Was it possible to glance
at her as he had glanced when he came into the room for the
guarantee?--to look at her, see her heart was breaking with
despair, and go out without a word with that face of callous
composure? He was not merely cold to her, he hated her because
he loved another woman--that was clear.

And remembering all the cruel words he had said, Anna supplied,
too, the words that he had unmistakably wished to say and could
have said to her, and she grew more and more exasperated.

"I won't prevent you," he might say. "You can go where you like.
You were unwilling to be divorced from your husband, no doubt so
that you might go back to him. Go back to him. If you want
money, I'll give it to you. How many roubles do you want?"

All the most cruel words that a brutal man could say, he said to
her in her imagination, and she could not forgive him for them,
as though he had actually said them.

"But didn't he only yesterday swear he loved me, he, a truthful
and sincere man? Haven't I despaired for nothing many times
already?" she said to herself afterwards.