People have grown hotter and the weather
colder. At this time of the year it used to get warm; the sky would
clear, and the sun would be out."
Silence ensued in the room. The mother stood waiting in the middle
of the floor.
"Did you hear?" came the low sound of the Little Russian's voice.
"You must understand it, the devil take it! That's richer than yours."
"Will you have some tea?" the mother called with a trembling voice,
and without waiting for an answer she exclaimed, in order to excuse
the tremor in her voice:
"How cold I am!"
Pavel came up slowly to her, looking at her from the corners of his
eyes, a guilty smile quivering on his lips.
"Forgive me, mother!" he said softly. "I am still a boy, a fool."
"You mustn't hurt me!" she cried in a sorrowful voice, pressing his
head to her bosom. "Say nothing! God be with you. Your life is
your own! But don't wound my heart. How can a mother help sorrowing
for her son? Impossible! I am sorry for all of you. You are all
dear to me as my own flesh and blood; you are all such good people!
And who will be sorry for you if I am not? You go and others follow
you. They have all left everything behind them, Pasha, and gone
into this thing.
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