letter, she began another, from which she left out any appeal to his generosity, and sealed it.
She had to write a second letter, to Vronsky.
"I have confessed to my husband," she began; and she sat long wrapped in thought, without being able to write more. That was so coarse, so unfeminine!" And then, what can I write to him?" she asked herself. Again the crimson of shame mantled her face as she remembered how calm he was, and she felt so vexed with him that she tore the sheet of paper with its one phrase into little bits. "I cannot write," she said to herself; and, closing her desk, she went up-stairs, told the governess and the domestics that she was going to Moscow that evening, and instantly began to make her preparations.
CHAPTER XVI
In all the rooms of the villa, the men-servants, the gardeners, the lackeys, were hurrying about laden with various things. Cupboards and commodes were cleared of their contents. Twice they had gone to the shop for packing-cord; on the floor lay piles of newspapers. Two trunks, traveling-bags, and a bundle of plaids had been carried into the anteroom. A carriage and two cabs were waiting at the front door. Anna, who in the haste of packing had somewhat forgotten her inward anguish, was standing by her table in her boudoir and packing her bag, when Annushka called her attention to the rumble of a carriage approaching the house.
Anna looked out of the window, and saw on the steps Alekseï Aleksandrovitch's messenger-boy ringing the front-door bell.
"Go and see what it is," said she, and then sat down in her chair and, folding her hands on her knees, waited with calm resignation. A lackey brought her a fat packet directed in Alekseï Aleksandrovitch's handwriting.
"The messenger was ordered to wait an answer," said he.
