Then Volodya left her.
She paced up and down the room a number of times. She noticed that her
shadow followed her on the floor, and, strange to say, it was the first
time in her life that her own shadow had made her uneasy. The thought
that there was a shadow assailed her mind unceasingly—and Eugenia
Stepanovna, for some reason, was afraid of this thought, and even tried
not to look at her shadow.
But the shadow crept after her and taunted her. Eugenia Stepanovna
tried to think of something else—but in vain.
She suddenly paused, pale and agitated.
“Well, it’s a shadow, a shadow!” she exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot
with a strange irritation, “what of it?”
Then all at once she reflected that it was stupid to make a fuss and to
stamp her feet, and she became quiet.
She approached the mirror. Her face was paler than usual, and her lips
quivered with a kind of strange hate.
“It’s nerves,” she thought; “I must take myself in hand.”