The Party and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

      “Mistress, darling, what is the matter?”

      “Go out of the room,” said Pyotr Dmitritch sternly, going up to the bed.

      “Understand … understand! …” Olga Mihalovna began.

      “Olya, I entreat you, calm yourself,” he said. “I did not mean to hurt you. I would not have gone out of the room if I had known it would have hurt you so much; I simply felt depressed. I tell you, on my honour …”

      “Understand! … You were lying, I was lying. …”

      “I understand. … Come, come, that’s enough! I understand,” said Pyotr Dmitritch tenderly, sitting down on her bed. “You said that in anger; I quite understand. I swear to God I love you beyond anything on earth, and when I married you I never once thought of your being rich. I loved you immensely, and that’s all … I assure you. I have never been in want of money or felt the value of it, and so I cannot feel the difference between your fortune and mine. It always seemed to me we were equally well off. And that I have been deceitful in little things, that … of course, is true. My life has hitherto been arranged in such a frivolous way that it has somehow been impossible to get on without paltry lying. It weighs on me, too, now. … Let us leave off talking about it, for goodness’ sake!”