She kept her thin neck turned to listen to the
conversation, and looked about on all sides with a strange
expression of eagerness in her face.
"Whom have you here?" Vlasova asked softly.
"A son, a student," answered the old woman in a loud, brusque voice.
"And you?"
"A son, also. A workingman."
"What's the name?"
"Vlasov."
"Never heard of him. How long has he been in prison?"
"Seven weeks."
"And mine has been in for ten months," said the old woman, with a
strange note of pride in her voice which did not escape the notice
of the mother.
A tall lady dressed in black, with a thin, pale face, said lingeringly:
"They'll soon put all the decent people in prison. They can't
endure them, they loathe them!"
"Yes, yes!" said the little old bald man, speaking rapidly. "All
patience is disappearing. Everybody is excited; everybody is
clamoring, and prices are mounting higher and higher. As a consequence
the value of men is depreciating. And there is not a single,
conciliatory voice heard, not one!"
"Perfectly true!" said the retired military man. "It's monstrous!
What's wanted is a voice, a firm voice to cry, 'Silence!' Yes,
that's what we want--a firm voice!"
The conversation became more general and animated.
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