Pavel and Andrey scarcely ever went to bed. They came home just
before the morning whistle sounded, tired, hoarse, and pale. The
mother knew that they held meetings in the woods and the marsh; that
squads of mounted police galloped around the village, that spies
were crawling all over, holding up and searching single workingmen,
dispersing groups, and sometimes making an arrest. She understood
that her son and Andrey might be arrested any night. Sometimes she
thought that this would be the best thing for them.
Strangely enough, the investigation of the murder of Isay, the
record clerk, suddenly ceased. For two days the local police
questioned the people in regard to the matter, examining about ten
men or so, and finally lost interest in the affair.
Marya Korsunova, in a chat with the mother, reflected the opinion of
the police, with whom she associated as amicably as with everybody:
"How is it possible to find the guilty man? That morning some hundred
people met Isay, and ninety of them, if not more, might have given
him the blow. During these eight years he has galled everybody."
The Little Russian changed considerably. His face became hollow-cheeked;
his eyelids got heavy and drooped over his round eyes, half covering
them.
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