"
He walked into the room, sat down and said to the mother:
"Let's have a talk together. I have something to tell you. I have
a theory!" There was a significant and mysterious expression in his
face as he said this. It filled the mother with a sense of foreboding.
She sat down opposite him and waited in mute anxiety for him to speak.
"Everything costs money!" he began in his gruff, heavy voice. "It
takes money to be born; it takes money to die. Books and leaflets
cost money, too. Now, then, do you know where all this money for
the books comes from?"
"No, I don't know," replied the mother in a low voice, anticipating danger.
"Nor do I! Another question I've got to ask is: Who writes those
books? The educated folks. The masters!" Rybin spoke curtly and
decisively, his voice grew gruffer and gruffer, and his bearded face
reddened as with the strain of exertion. "Now, then, the masters
write the books and distribute them. But the writings in the books
are against these very masters. Now, tell me, why do they spend their
money and their time to stir up the people against themselves? Eh?"
Nilovna blinked, then opened her eyes wide and exclaimed in fright:
"What do you think? Tell me.
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