The
rickety wagon creaked for lack of greasing.
CHAPTER II
Nikolay Ivanovich lived on a quiet, deserted street, in a little
green wing annexed to a black two-storied structure swollen with
age. In front of the wing was a thickly grown little garden, and
branches of lilac bushes, acacias, and silvery young poplars looked
benignly and freshly into the windows of the three rooms occupied by
Nikolay. It was quiet and tidy in his place. The shadows trembled
mutely on the floor, shelves closely set with books stretched across
the walls, and portraits of stern, serious persons hung over them.
"Do you think you'll find it convenient here?" asked Nikolay,
leading the mother into a little room with one window giving on the
garden and another on the grass-grown yard. In this room, too, the
walls were lined with bookcases and bookshelves.
"I'd rather be in the kitchen," she said. "The little kitchen is
bright and clean."
It seemed to her that he grew rather frightened. And when she
yielded to his awkward and embarrassed persuasions to take the
room, he immediately cheered up.
There was a peculiar atmosphere pervading all the three rooms. It
was easy and pleasant to breathe in them; but one's voice involuntarily
dropped a note in the wish not to speak aloud and intrude upon the
peaceful thoughtfulness of the people who sent down a concentrated
look from the walls.
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