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'Read me some poetry,' said Zinaïda in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; 'I like your reading poetry You read it in sing-song, but that's noRead ia" Only sit down first'

I sat down and read 'On the Hills of Georgia'

'"That the heart cannot choose but love,"' repeated Zinaïda 'That's where poetry's so fine; it tells us what is not, and what's not only better than what is, but ht want not to, but it can't help it' She was silent again, then all at once she started and got up 'Coht s are hurt too nowI can't help it! you'll understand it all sory with me!'

Zinaïda hurriedly pressed e Meidanov set to reading us his 'Manslayer,' which had just appeared in print, but I did not hear him He screa rhythless, while I still watched Zinaïda and tried to take in the import of her last words

'Perchance some unknown rival Has surprised and h his nose--and my eyes and Zinaïda's met She looked down and faintly blushed I saw her blush, and grew cold with terror I had been jealous before, but only at that instant the idea of her being in love flashed upon my mind 'Good God! she is in love!'