'"
"He's a brainy old man!" said the Little Russian, nodding his head.
"We often have talks with him. He's a fine peasant. Will they
let Fedya out soon?"
"Yes, one of these days, I suppose. They'll let out all, I think.
They have no evidence except Isay's, and what can he say?"
The mother walked up and down the room, and looked at her son.
Andrey stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back,
listening to Pavel's narrative. Pavel also paced up and down the
room. His beard had grown, and small ringlets of thin, dark hair
curled in a dense growth around his cheeks, softening the swarthy
color of his face. His dark eyes had their stern expression.
"Sit down!" said the mother, serving a hot dish.
At dinner Andrey told Pavel about Rybin. When he had concluded
Pavel exclaimed regretfully:
"If I had been home, I would not have let him go that way. What
did he take along with him? A feeling of discontent and a muddle
in his head!"
"Well," said Andrey, laughing, "when a man's grown to the age of
forty and has fought so long with the bears in his heart, it's hard
to make him over."
Pavel looked at him sternly and asked:
"Do you think it's impossible for enlightenment to destroy all the
rubbish that's been crammed into a man's brains?"
"Don't fly up into the air at once, Pavel! Your flight will knock
you up against the belfry tower and break your wings," said the
Little Russian in admonition.
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