"
"What are you talking about, Marya? Why, who could dream of such
a thing about them?" the other ejaculated in fright.
"Well, who killed him? Some one from among your people, of course!"
said Korsunova, regarding the idea as a matter to be taken for
granted. "Everybody knows he spied on them."
The mother stopped to fetch breath, and put her hand to her bosom.
"What are you going on that way for? Don't be afraid! Whoever it
is will reap the harvest of his own rashness. Let's go quick, or
else they'll take him away!"
The mother walked on without asking herself why she went, and shaken
by the thought of Vyesovshchikov.
"There--he's done it!" Her mind was held fast by the one idea.
Not far from the factory walls, on the grounds of a building
recently burned down, a crowd was gathered, tramping down the coal
and stirring up ash dust. It hummed and buzzed like a swarm of
bees. There were many women in the crowd, even more children, and
storekeepers, tavern waiters, policemen, and the gendarme Petlin, a
tall old man with a woolly, silvery beard, and decorations on his breast.
Isay half reclined on the ground, his back resting against a
burned joist, his bare head hanging over his right shoulder, his
right hand in his trousers' pocket, and the fingers of his left
hand clutching the soil.
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