But the trouble was that the hysterics could not go on for ever, and {I am writing the loathsome truth} lying face downwards on the sofa with my face thrust into my nasty leather pillow, I began by degrees to be aware of a far-away, involuntary but irresistible feeling that it would be awkward now for me to raise my head and look Liza straight in the face. Why was I ashamed? I don't know, but I was ashamed.
( Fyodor Dostoyevsky )
[ Notes from Underground ]
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