Bound up in her grief and the injured sense of her
impotence, she cried long, gently, and monotonously, pouring out all
the pain of her wounded heart in her sobs. And before her, like an
irremovable stain, hung that yellow face with the scant mustache, and
the squinting eyes staring at her with malicious pleasure. Resentment
and bitterness were winding themselves about her breast like black
threads on a spool; resentment and bitterness toward those who tear
a son away from his mother because he is seeking truth.
It was cold; the rain pattered against the window panes; something
seemed to be creeping along the walls. She thought she heard,
walking watchfully around the house, gray, heavy figures, with
broad, red faces, without eyes, and with long arms. It seemed to
her that she almost heard the jingling of their spurs.
"I wish they had taken me, too!" she thought.
The whistle blew, calling the people to work. This time its sounds
were low, indistinct, uncertain. The door opened and Rybin entered.
He stood before her, wiping the raindrops from his beard.
"They snatched him away, did they?" he asked.
"Yes, they did, the dogs!" she replied, sighing.
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