"Good evening!" said the man, in a thick, bass voice, breathing heavily.
The mother bowed in silence.
"Pavel is not at home yet?"
The stranger leisurely removed his short fur jacket, raised one
foot, whipped the snow from his boot with his hat, then did the same
with the other foot, flung his hat into a corner, and rocking on his
thin legs walked into the room, looking back at the imprints he left
on the floor. He approached the table, examined it as if to satisfy
himself of its solidity, and finally sat down and, covering his
mouth with his hand, yawned. His head was perfectly round and
close-cropped, his face shaven except for a thin mustache, the ends
of which pointed downward.
After carefully scrutinizing the room with his large, gray,
protuberant eyes, he crossed his legs, and, leaning his head over
the table, inquired:
"Is this your own house, or do you rent it?"
The mother, sitting opposite him, answered:
"We rent it."
"Not a very fine house," he remarked.
"Pasha will soon be here; wait," said the mother quietly.
"Why, yes, I am waiting," said the man.
His calmness, his deep, sympathetic voice, and the candor and
simplicity of his face encouraged the mother.
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