But in the evening how he wept, this Othello, in Zinaïda's arms, when, seeking him out in a corner of the garden, she asked him why he was so depressed. My tears flowed with such violence that she was frightened. 'What is wrong with you? What is it, Volodya?' she repeated; and seeing I made no answer, and did not cease weeping, she was about to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned away from her, and whispered through my sobs, 'I know all. Why did you play with me?... What need had you of my love?'
'I am to blame, Volodya ...' said Zinaïda. 'I am very much to blame ...' she added, wringing her hands. 'How much there is bad and black and sinful in me!... But I am not playing with you now. I love you; you don't even suspect why and how.... But what is it you know?'
What could I say to her? She stood facing me, and looked at me; and I belonged to her altogether from head to foot directly she looked at me.... A quarter of an hour later I was running races with the cadet and Zinaïda. I was not crying, I was laughing, though my swollen eyelids dropped a tear or two as I laughed. I had Zinaïda's ribbon round my neck for a cravat, and I shouted with delight whenever I succeeded in catching her round the waist. She did just as she liked with me.