"About all of them! Every single one I met. They are not the
people who will traffic in human blood, oh, no!" Perspiration
burst out on her face, and her fingers trembled.
"You are not looking in the right place, mother; look farther back,"
said Rybin, drooping his head. "Those who are directly working in
the movement may not know anything about it themselves. They think
it must be so; they have the truth at heart. But there may be
people behind them who are looking out only for their own selfish
interests. Men won't go against themselves." And with the firm
conviction of a peasant fed on centuries of distrust, he added: "No
good will ever come from the masters! Take my word for it!"
"What concoction has your brain put together?" the mother asked,
again seized with anxious misgiving.
"I?" Rybin looked at her, was silent for a while, then repeated:
"Keep away from the masters! That's what!" He grew morosely silent
again, and seemed to shrink within himself.
"I'll go away, mother," he said after a pause. "I wanted to join the
fellows, to work along with them. I'm fit for the work. I can read
and write. I'm persevering and not a fool.
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