When she went to bed it occurred to
her that her life had never yet been so humiliating, so lonely and
void. During the last years she had become accustomed to live
constantly in the expectation of something momentous, something
good. Young people were circling around her, noisy, vigorous, full
of life. Her son's thoughtful and earnest face was always before
her, and he seemed to be the master and creator of this thrilling
and noble life. Now he was gone, everything was gone. In the whole
day, no one except the disagreeable Rybin had called.
Beyond the window, the dense, cold rain was sighing and knocking
at the panes. The rain and the drippings from the roof filled the
air with a doleful, wailing melody. The whole house appeared to be
rocking gently to and fro, and everything around her seemed aimless
and unnecessary.
A gentle rap was heard at the door. It came once, and then a second
time. She had grown accustomed to these noises; they no longer
frightened her. A soft, joyous sensation thrilled her heart, and a
vague hope quickly brought her to her feet. Throwing a shawl over
her shoulders, she hurried to the door and opened it.
Samoylov walked in, followed by another man with his face hidden
behind the collar of his overcoat and under a hat thrust over his
eyebrows.
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