Gray locks
glistened in her thick, dark hair, like the imprints of heavy blows.
Altogether she was soft, melancholy, and submissive.
Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks.
"Wait, don't cry!" begged the son in a soft voice. "Give me a drink."
She rose and said:
"I'll give you some ice water."
But when she returned he was already asleep. She stood over him for
a minute, trying to breathe lightly. The cup in her hand trembled,
and the ice knocked against the tin. Then, setting the cup on the
table, she knelt before the sacred image upon the wall, and began
to pray in silence. The sounds of dark, drunken life beat against
the window panes; an accordion screeched in the misty darkness of
the autumn night; some one sang a loud song; some one was swearing
with ugly, vile oaths, and the excited sounds of women's irritated,
weary voices cut the air.
Life in the little house of the Vlasovs flowed on monotonously,
but more calmly and undisturbed than before, and somewhat different
from everywhere else in the suburb.
The house stood at the edge of the village, by a low but steep and
muddy declivity. A third of the house was occupied by the kitchen
and a small room used for the mother's bedroom, separated from the
kitchen by a partition reaching partially to the ceiling.
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