And I can't write again.

I can do nothing, can begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait, inventing amusements for myself--the English family, writing, reading--but it's all nothing but a sham, it's all the same as morphine.

He ought to feel for me," she said, feeling tears of self-pity coming into her eyes.

She heard Vronsky's abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears-- not only dried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a book, affecting composure.

She wanted to show him that she was displeased that he had not come home as he had promised-- displeased only, and not on any account to let him see her distress, and least of all, her self-pity.