As she sat on the star-shaped sofa waiting for the train, she gazed with aversion at the people coming and going (they were all hateful to her), and thought how she would arrive at the station, would write him a note, and what she would write to him, and how he was at this moment complaining to his mother of his position, not understanding her sufferings, and how she would go into the room, and what she would say to him.

Then she thought that life might still be happy, and how miserably she loved and hated him, and how fearfully her heart was beating.

A bell rang, some young men, ugly and impudent, and at the same time careful of the impression they were making, hurried by.

Pyotr, too, crossed the room in his livery and top-boots, with his dull, animal face, and came up to her to take her to the train.

Some noisy men were quiet as she passed them on the platform, and one whispered something about her to another-- something vile, no doubt.