Book 1 Chapter 49 Vera Doukhova

"So this is what it means, this," thought Nekhludoff as he left
the prison, only now fully understanding his crime. If he had not
tried to expiate his guilt he would never have found out how
great his crime was. Nor was this all; she, too, would never have
felt the whole horror of what had been done to her. He only now
saw what he had done to the soul of this woman; only now she saw
and understood what had been done to her.

Up to this time Nekhludoff had played with a sensation of
self-admiration, had admired his own remorse; now he was simply
filled with horror. He knew he could not throw her up now, and
yet he could not imagine what would come of their relations to
one another.

Just as he was going out, a jailer, with a disagreeable,
insinuating countenance, and a cross and medals on his breast,
came up and handed him a note with an air of mystery.

"Here is a note from a certain person, your honour," he said to
Nekhludoff as he gave him the envelope.

"What person?"

"You will know when you read it. A political prisoner. I am in
that ward, so she asked me; and though it is against the rules,
still feelings of humanity--" The jailer spoke in an unnatural
manner.

Nekhludoff was surprised that a jailer of the ward where
political prisoners were kept should pass notes inside the very
prison walls, and almost within sight of every one; he did not
then know that this was both a jailer and a spy. However, he took
the note and read it on coming out of the prison.