“Oh now, I am sorry. There is no need to speak of it, don’t upset yourself.” The Countess leans forward to pat her hand. She reminds Marya of her grandmother’s friends in St. Petersburg, those black-clad widows who took sustenance from misfortune, inhaled it like the fresh sea air that promised rejuvenation. “Do not feel you have to speak of such painful things.” Yet it is clear that the Countess longs for her to speak of it, so she says, quickly, “And that gentleman?”
