We idly watched the sky, the river, the approaching
forest, with a luxurious reliance on the power of man, and I caught
much of my assurance from Semyonov himself. He did really seem to me,
that morning, a "tremendous" figure, as he sat there, so still, so
triumphant. He had never before, perhaps, been quite certain of Marie
Ivanovna, had been alarmed at her independence, or at his own
passionate love for her. But this morning he _knew_. She loved him.
She was his--no one could take her from him. She was the woman he
wanted as he had never wanted a woman before, and _she was his--she
was his_!
I do not remember our entering the forest. I know that first you climb
a rough, rather narrow road up from the river, that the trees close
about you very gradually, that there is a little church with a green
turret and a fine view of the Nestor, and that there a broad solemn
avenue of silver birch leads you forward, gently and without any
sinister omens. Then again the forest clears and there are fields of
corn and, built amongst the thin scattering of trees, the village of
N----.
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