.. Here the civic clerk of the military
department burst into sobs, clasping his head, and exclaimed:
"My poor mother! ... What will become of her? She will not be able
to sustain this degradation ... No! Death is a thousand times
better than these hellish tortures of a being guilty of naught."
Although he was expressing himself, as always, in the style of the
dime novels (in which way he had mainly enticed the trusting
Verka), still, the theatrical thought of suicide, once arisen, no
longer forsook him.
Somehow one day he was promenading for a long time with Verka in
Prince Park. Already greatly devastated by autumn, this wonderful
ancient park glistened and played with the magnificent tones of
the foliage, blossoming out into colours: crimson, purple, lemon,
orange and the deep cherry colour of old, settled wine; and it
seemed that the cold air was diffusing sweet odours, like precious
wine. And yet, a fine impress, a tender aroma of death, was wafted
from the bushes, from the grass, from the trees.
Dilectorsky waxed tender; gave his feelings a free rein, was moved
over himself, and began to weep.
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