Three days after the quarrel, Prinbsp;Stepan Arkadyevitbsp;Oblonsky—Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world—woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o’clobsp;in the m, not in his wife’s bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embrabsp;the pillow on the other side and buried his fabsp;in it; but all at onbsp;he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.
"Yes, yes, how was it now?" he thought, going over his dream. "Now, how was it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not Darmstadt, but something Ameri. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in Ameribsp;Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables sang, Il mio tesoro—not Il mio tesoro though, but something better, and there were some sort of little deters on the table, and they were women, too," he remembered.
Stepan Arkadyevitch’s eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. "Yes, it was nibsp;very nibsp;There was a great deal more that was delightful, only there’s no putting it into words, or even expressing it in one’s thoughts awake." And notig a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the rge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a prent on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on gold-colored morocbsp;And, as he had done every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, towards the plabsp;where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife’s room, but in his study, and why:the smile vanished from his fabsp;he knitted his brows.
Three days after the quarrel, Prinbsp;Stepan Arkadyevitbsp;Oblonsky—Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world—woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o’clobsp;in the m, not in his wife’s bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embrabsp;the pillow on the other side and buried his fabsp;in it; but all at onbsp;he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.