Beschrijving
WHEN Litvinov was torn loose from his far from gay or complicated life, caught up in a lurid passion in which he was never at home, and then abandoned, he fled upon the train. At first he was exhausted by the prodigious effort of will he had made; then a kind of composure came upon him. He was hardened. The train, the minutes, were carrying him away from the wreck of his life.
