That was an exquisite ball, exceeding my highest, most far-flung expectations. I put myself together before the ball in expectations of a good time. The way a girl dresses is, in her own unique, introspective, and subtle way, a reflection of her emotions. I was expecting something - anticipating it and fearing it, but also fearing that it wouldn’t materialize. I swept my hair up in a flattering coiffure, and I donned a luxurious black velvet gown that wasn’t meant to be the picture itself, but rather the frame, of my appearance. My face and full bodice were meant to be the center of attention. I hadn’t a moment’s rest since I last saw Vronsky. Having made my appearance on the ballroom floor, I spent all my energy on finding he whom I loved. Yes, loved, for it is now an unquestionable truth of irrevocable feeling that binds me to this man. Upon seeing him, my eyesight itself began to fail me, spinning into a tunnel that was tumbling, tumbling down the dance hall and diving into the pools of his eyes. Without seeming to take a single step he was by my side and asking me to join him in dancing the mazurka. In the periphery of my vision, there was a little, inconspicuous pink dot with whom this dance concerned. This poor ball of fits named Kitty Shcherbatsky, whose “bared, thin, delicate girlish hand sank strengthlessly into the folds of her pink tunic” (82), was beside herself with dejection. I felt for her a shallow sort of pity, but my emotions were wholeheartedly preoccupied. He and I flowed rapturously across the hall, and I could think of nothing but the nearness of his heart and my own uncontrollable happiness.