His heavy,
raucous breathing was audible.
"There is Savely!" exclaimed Yakob.
"Here I am," said the man hoarsely. He stopped, and began to cough.
A shabby coat hung over him down to his very heels. From under his
round, crumpled hat straggled thin, limp tufts of dry, straight,
yellowish hair. His light, sparse beard grew unevenly upon his
yellow, bony face; his mouth stood half-open; his eyes were sunk
deep beneath his forehead, and glittered feverishly in their dark
hollows.
When Rybin introduced him to Sofya he said to her:
"I heard you brought books for the people."
"I did."
"Thank you in the name of the people. They themselves cannot yet
understand the book of truth. They cannot yet thank; so I, who
have learned to understand it, render you thanks in their behalf."
He breathed quickly, with short, eager breaths, strangely drawing in
the air through his dry lips. His voice broke. The bony fingers of
his feeble hands crept along his breast trying to button his coat.
"It's bad for you to be in the woods so late; it's damp and close
here," remarked Sofya.
"Nothing is good for me any more," he answered, out of breath.
"Only death!"
It was painful to listen to him.
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