Chapter 30 — Anna Karenina

On the storm-lashed platform Anna breathes snow air until a man in a military overcoat steps between her and the lamplight: Vronsky. He bows, offers help, and she recognizes the same reverential ecstasy as at the ball. She told herself moments ago he was one of hundreds of young men; now joyful pride seizes her. She asks why he is here; he answers that he cannot help coming where she is.

Storm noise swells; his words match what her soul wanted though reason feared them. She begs a good man to forget; he vows never to forget a word or gesture. She cries enough, climbs back into the corridor, pauses knowing they have moved fearfully closer, then sits trembling with blissful tension all night.

Toward morning she dozes; daylight finds the train near Petersburg. Home, husband, son, and the coming day rush in. At the station Karenin meets her with frigid courtesy, sarcastic devotion, tired eyes. His ears under the round hat strike her oddly; his habitual jeering tone returns. She asks after Seryozha; he answers that her concern is poor reward for his ardor. Meeting him, she feels painful hypocrisy and dissatisfaction with herself she has never noted so clearly.