"
He often spoke in this way. In his mouth the words assumed a
peculiar, universal significance, bitter and corrosive.
At last, it was the first of May! The whistle shrilled as usual,
powerful and peremptory. The mother, who hadn't slept a minute
during the night, jumped out of bed, made a fire in the samovar,
which had been prepared the evening before, and was about, as
always, to knock at the door of her son's and Andrey's room, when,
with a wave of her hand she recollected the day, and went to seat
herself at the window, leaning her cheek on her hand.
Clusters of light clouds, white and rosy, sailed swiftly across the
pale blue sky, like huge birds frightened by the piercing shriek of
the escaping steam. The mother watched the clouds, absorbed in
herself. Her head was heavy, her eyes dry and inflamed from the
sleepless night. A strange calm possessed her breast, her heart was
beating evenly, and her mind dwelt on only common, everyday things.
"I prepared the samovar too early; it will boil away. Let them
sleep longer to-day; they've worn themselves out, both of them."
A cheerful ray of sun looked into the room. She held her hand out
to it, and with the other gently patted the bright young beam,
smiling kindly and thoughtfully.
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