As though stunned by a blow, Sina at once fell asleep, but woke early,
feeling utterly broken, and cold as a corpse. Her despair had never
slumbered, and for no single moment could she forget that which had
been done. In mute dejection she scrutinized every detail of her room,
as if to discover what since yesterday had suffered change. Yet, from
its corner, touched by morning light, the ikon looked down at her in
friendly wise. The windows, the floor, the furniture were unaltered,
and on the pillows of the adjoining bed lay the fair head of Dubova who
was still fast asleep. All was exactly the same as usual; only the
crumpled dress flung carelessly across a chair told its tale. The flush
on her face at waking soon gave place to an ashen pallor that was
heightened by her coal-black eyebrows. With the awful clearness of an
overwrought brain she rehearsed her experiences of the last few hours.
She saw herself walking through silent streets at sunrise and hostile
windows seemed watching her, while the few persons she met turned round
to look at her. On she went in the dawn-light, hampered by her long
skirts, and holding a little green plush bag, much as some criminal
might stagger homewards. The past night was to her as a night of
delirium. Something mad and strange and overwhelming had happened, yet
how or why she knew not. To have flung all shame aside, to have
forgotten her love for another man, it was this that to her appeared
incomprehensible.