and the fields with their straight-cut rows of potato-hills, and the oblique shadows cast by the houses and the trees, and even by the potato-hills,—all was as beautiful as an exquisite landscape just from the master's hand, and freshly varnished.
"Make haste, make haste!" he shouted, pushing up through the window a three-ruble note to the driver, who turned round and looked down at him.
The izvoshchik's hand arranged something about the lantern, then the crack of the knout was heard, and the carriage whirled rapidly over the even pavement.
"I need nothing, nothing, but this pleasure," he thought, as his eyes rested on the knob of the bell, fastened between the windows, and he imagined Anna as she seemed when last he saw her. "The farther I go, the more I love her.—Ah! here is the garden of the Vrede datcha. Where shall I find her? How? Why did she make this appointment? and why did she write on Betsy's note?"
This struck him for the first time, but he had no time to think about it. He stopped the driver before they reached the driveway, and, getting out of the carriage, he went up the walk which led to the house. There was no one on the avenue; but looking toward the right he saw her. Her face was covered with a veil; but with a joyful glance, he recognized her immediately, by her graceful motion as she walked, by the slope of her shoulders, and the pose of her head, and he felt as if an electric shock had passed through him. With new strength he felt the joy of life and of action, even from the movements of his limbs to the involuntary motion of respiration, and something made his lips twitch.
When he came near her, she eagerly seized his hand.
"You are not angry because I asked you to come? I absolutely needed to see you," she said; and the serious and stern closing of the lips, which he saw under the veil, quickly put an end to his jubilant spirits.
"I angry? but how did you come? when?"
"No matter about that," said she, taking Vronsky's arm. "Come; I must have a talk with you."
