"Aha!" he
exclaimed, as he shut the book, "what's the news?"
Novikoff smiled sadly, as he took the other's hand.
"Oh! nothing," he said, as he approached the window, "It's all just the
same as ever it was."
From where he sat Sanine could only see Novikoff's tall figure
silhouetted against the evening sky, and for a long while he gazed at
him without speaking.
When Sanine first took his friend to see Lida, who now no longer
resembled the proud, high-spirited girl of heretofore, neither she nor
Novikoff said a word to each other about all that lay nearest to their
hearts. He knew that, after having spoken, they would be unhappy, yet
doubly so if they kept silence. What to him was plain and easy they
could only accomplish, he felt sure, after much suffering. "Be it so,"
thought he, "for suffering purifies and ennobles." Now, however, the
propitious moment for them had come.
Novikoff stood at the window, silently watching the sunset. His mood
was a strange one, begotten of grief for what was lost, and of longing
for joy that was near. In this soft twilight he pictured to himself
Lida, sad, and covered with shame.
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