Vladimir Chenkov’s dacha—his big estate at the far end of the private highway some thirty-odd miles south of Moscow—almost had the proportions of a palace. It was big all over, with huge rooms, high ceilings, half a dozen fireplaces, two grand pianos, ponderous, overstuffed furniture and eight private bedrooms, each easily large enough to accommodate four people although each contained only one oversized bed.
“You’re a strange girl, Anna,” said Chenkov, sitting with her on bearskins near the fireplace and trying to maneuver in such a way that when she grew tired her head would naturally fall into his lap.
“Oh, I like you—yes. Don’t misunderstand. But at times you are so—cold.”
“You’re married, Vladimir, and sometimes I think of your wife and think of how I would feel under similar circu
