It's just like a sacred procession."
A great ardent thought burned in her bosom, animating her heart with
an exalted feeling of sad, tormenting joy; but she could find no
words, and she waved her hands with the pang of muteness. She
looked into her son's face with eyes in which a bright, sharp pain
had lit its fires.
"Very well, mother! Forgive me. I see all now!" he muttered,
lowering his head. Glancing at her with a light smile, he added,
embarrassed but happy: "I will not forget this, mother, upon my word."
She pushed him from her, and looking into the room she said to
Andrey in a good-natured tone of entreaty:
"Andriusha, please don't you shout at him so! Of course, you are
older than he, and so you----"
The Little Russian was standing with his back toward her. He sang
out drolly without turning around to face her:
"Oh, oh, oh! I'll bawl at him, be sure! And I'll beat him some day, too."
She walked up slowly to him, with outstretched hand, and said:
"My dear, dear man!"
The Little Russian turned around, bent his head like an ox, and
folding his hands behind his back walked past her into the kitchen.
Thence his voice issued in a tone of mock sullenness:
"You had better go away, Pavel, so I shan't bite your head off!
I am only joking, mother; don't believe it! I want to prepare
the samovar.
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