Vronsky came to the side of the bed and, seeing her, again covered his face with his hands.
‘Uncover your face, look at him. He’s a saint,’ she said. ‘No, uncover it, uncover your face!’ she said crossly. ‘Alexei Alexandrovich, uncover his face! I want to see him.’
Alexei Alexandrovich took Vronsky’s hands and drew them away from his face, terrible in the expression of suffering and shame that was on it.
‘Give him your hand. Forgive him.’
Alexei Alexandrovich gave him his hand, not holding back the tears that poured from his eyes.
‘Thank God, thank God,’ she said, ‘now everything is ready. Just let me stretch my legs a little. There, that’s wonderful. How tastelessly these flowers are done, quite unlike violets,’ she said, pointing to the wallpaper. ‘My God, my God! When will it end? Give me morphine. Doctor, give me morphine! Oh, my God, my God!’
And she began thrashing about in her bed.

Tolstoy - Anna Karenina