The figure of a girl with a sharp, determined face
stood before her. Now the figure walks somewhere in the darkness
amid the snowflakes, solitary, weary. And her son sits in a little
cell, with iron gratings over the window. Perhaps he is not yet
asleep, and is thinking. But he is thinking not of his mother.
He has one nearer to him than herself. Heavy, chaotic thoughts,
like a tangled mass of clouds, crept over her, and encompassed her
and oppressed her bosom.
"You are tired, granny! Let's go to bed!" said Yegor, smiling.
She bade him good night, and sidled carefully into the kitchen,
carrying away a bitter, caustic feeling in her heart.
In the morning, after breakfast, Yegor asked her:
"Suppose they catch you and ask you where you got all these
heretical books from. What will you say?"
"I'll say, 'It's none of your business!'" she answered, smiling.
"You'll never convince them of that!" Yegor replied confidently.
"On the contrary, they are profoundly convinced that this is
precisely their business. They will question you very, very
diligently, and very, very long!"
"I won't tell, though!"
"They'll put you in prison!"
"Well, what of it? Thank God that I am good at least for that,"
she said with a sigh.
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