But soon she rose again,
walked irresolutely into the kitchen, bolted the outer door, and
straining her eyebrows walked back into the living room. She pulled
down the window curtains, and taking a book from the shelf, sat down
at the table again, looked around, bent down over the book, and
began to move her lips. When she heard a noise on the street, she
started, clapped the book shut with the palm of her hand, and
listened intently. And again, now closing, now opening her eyes,
she whispered:
"E--z--a."
With even precision and stern regularity the dull tick of the
pendulum marked the dying seconds.
A knock at the door was heard; the mother jumped quickly to her feet,
thrust the book on the shelf, and walking up to the door asked anxiously:
"Who's there?"
CHAPTER XIII
Rybin came in, greeted her, and stroking his beard in a dignified
manner and peeping into the room with his dark eyes, remarked:
"You used to let people into your house before, without inquiring
who they were. Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"You are? I thought the Little Russian was here. I saw him to-day.
The prison doesn't spoil a man. Stupidity, that's what spoils most
of all.
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