He was not alone, and therefore it was not so dangerous. But
pride in her son mingled with her apprehension for his fate; it was
his secret labors that discharged themselves in fresh currents into
the narrow, turbid stream of life.
One evening Marya Korsunova rapped at the window from the street,
and when the mother opened it, she said in a loud whisper:
"Now, take care, Pelagueya; the boys have gotten themselves into
a nice mess! It's been decided to make a search to-night in your
house, and Mazin's and Vyesovshchikov's----"
The mother heard only the beginning of the woman's talk; all the
rest of the words flowed together in one stream of ill-boding,
hoarse sounds.
Marya's thick lips flapped hastily one against the other. Snorts
issued from her fleshy nose, her eyes blinked and turned from side
to side as if on the lookout for somebody in the street.
"And, mark you, I do not know anything, and I did not say anything
to you, mother dear, and did not even see you to-day, you understand?"
Then she disappeared.
The mother closed the window and slowly dropped on a chair, her
strength gone from her, her brain a desolate void. But the
consciousness of the danger threatening her son quickly brought
her to her feet again.
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