"
He emptied the glass of tea at one gulp, and continued his narrative.
He enumerated the years and months he had passed in prison and in
exile, told of various accidents and misfortunes, of the slaughters
in prisons, and of hunger in Siberia. The mother looked at him,
listened with wonderment to the simple way in which he spoke of this
life, so full of suffering, of persecution, of wrong, and abuse of men.
"Well, let's get down to business!"
His voice changed, and his face grew more serious. He asked
questions about the way in which the mother intended to smuggle
the literature into the factory, and she marveled at his clear
knowledge of all the details.
Then they returned to reminiscences of their native village. He
joked, and her mind roved thoughtfully through her past. It seemed
to her strangely like a quagmire uniformly strewn with hillocks,
which were covered with poplars trembling in constant fear; with low
firs, and with white birches straying between the hillocks. The
birches grew slowly, and after standing for five years on the unstable,
putrescent soil, they dried up, fell down, and rotted away. She
looked at this picture, and a vague feeling of insufferable sadness
overcame her.
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