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"How soon this came, how unexpected," thinks Viérotchka alone in her room at the close of the evening. "We spoke for the first time, and yet we became such good friends; half an hour before not to know each other, and in an hour's time to become such good friends, how strange!"
No; it is not strange at all, Viérotchka. People like Lopukhóf have magical words, which attract to them every abused and persecuted creature. It is their "bride" that whispers such words into their ears. But here is something that is indeed strange, Viérotchka -- but not for you and me -- that you are so calm. Here people think that love is an exciting feeling, and you will fall asleep as gently as a child, and you will be neither frightened nor disturbed by dreams; you may dream of happy childish games, forfeits, tag, or maybe dances, also gay and unconcerned. It seems strange to some people, but you do not know that it is strange, and I know that it is not strange. Agitation in love does not point to love; agitation in it is something that should not exist, for love in itself is joyous and unconcerned.