Yellow rays from the setting sun lit up the bare fields,
the horses splashed evenly through the puddles. As he
watched their gleaming hoofs, he knitted his black eyebrows
"Yes, we have only ourselves to blame.. Certainly those
were the best moments. If not the best, they were pure
magic.'' ''All round the crimson wild rose flowered,
along the dark lime-avenues." . . . "But, my God, what
would have happened afterwards? Imagine if I had never
abandoned her? Oh, what rubbish! That same Nadejda,
not the proprietor of a posting-station guesthouse, but as
my wife, hostess in my Petersburg home, the mother of my
.And closing his eyes, he shook his head.
Bunin Ivan. Dark Avenues. 1938.