Chapter 17

           

           TheoldprinceandSergeyIvanovitchgotintothetrapanddroveoff;therestofthepartyhastenedhomewardsonfoot.

           Butthestorm-clouds,turningwhiteandthenblack,moveddownsoquicklythattheyhadtoquickentheirpacetogethomebeforetherain.Theforemostclouds,loweringandblackassoot-ladensmoke,rushedwithextraordinaryswiftnessoverthesky.Theywerestilltwohundredpacesfromhomeandagustofwindhadalreadyblownup,andeverysecondthedownpourmightbelookedfor.

           Thechildrenranaheadwithfrightenedandgleefulshrieks.DaryaAlexandrovna,strugglingpainfullywithherskirtsthatclungroundherlegs,wasnotwalking,butrunning,hereyesfixedonthechildren.Themenoftheparty,holdingtheirhatson,strodewithlongstepsbesideher.Theywerejustatthestepswhenabigdropfellsplashingontheedgeoftheironguttering.Thechildrenandtheireldersafterthemranintotheshelterofthehouse,talkingmerrily.

           “KaterinaAlexandrovna?”LevinaskedofAgafeaMihalovna,whometthemwithkerchiefsandrugsinthehall.

           “Wethoughtshewaswithyou,”shesaid.

           “AndMitya?”

           “Inthecopse,hemustbe,andthenursewithhim.”

           Levinsnatcheduptherugsandrantowardsthecopse.

           Inthatbriefintervaloftimethestormcloudshadmovedon,coveringthesunsocompletelythatitwasdarkasaneclipse.

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