Stepan Arkadyich could be calm when he thought of his wife, and could immerse himself in the news feed and drink the coffee that the II/Samovar/l(8) provided; but when he saw her tortured, suffering face, heard the tone of her voice, submissive to fate and full of despair, there was a catch in his breath and a lump in his throat, and his eyes began to shine with tears.

“My God! What have I done? Dolly! For God’s sake!… You know…” He could not go on; there was a sob in his throat. “Might we…” he began, gesturing meaningfully at their two androids. Dolly gave an agitated nod, and both of the Class IIIs were sent into Surcease, with head units slightly forward and sensory circuits deactivated, to allow their masters their absolute privacy.

“Dolly, what can I say…?” He paused, trying to arrange his thoughts appropriately, and there was no machine buzz in the room, not a single milli-Maxwell of hum. In this uncanny silence, Stiva blundered onward. “One thing: forgive… Remember, cannot nine years of my life atone for an instant-”

She dropped her eyes and listened, expecting what he would say, yet silently beseeching him in some way or other to make her believe differently.

“-an instant of passion?” he said, and would have gone on, but at that word, as at a pang of physical pain, her lips stiffened again, and again the muscles of her right cheek worked. The razor wound on Stiva’s upper lip sent a pulse of fresh pain radiating through the nerves of his face.

“Go away, go out of the room!” she shrieked still more shrilly. “And don’t talk to me of your passion and your loathsomeness.”

She tried to go out, but tottered, and clung to the back of a chair to support herself. His face quivered in a fresh wave of agony, and his eyes swam with tears.

“Dolly!” he said, sobbing now. “For mercy’s sake, think of the children! I am to blame, and punish me, make me expiate my fault. Anything I can do, I am ready to do anything! I am to blame, no words can express how much I am to blame! But, Dolly, forgive me!”