If I could get up--" His breath gave out.
He clapped his hand to his breast, and with a weak movement began
to rub it.
"You've gotten very sick, Yegor Ivanovich," said Nikolay gloomily,
drooping his head. The mother sighed and cast an anxious glance
about the little, crowded room.
"That's my own affair. Granny, you ask about Pavel. No reason to
feign indifference," said Yegor.
Vyesovshchikov smiled broadly.
"Pavel's all right; he's strong; he's like an elder among us; he
converses with the officials and gives commands; he's respected.
There's good reason for it."
Vlasova nodded her head, listening, and looked sidewise at the
swollen, bluish face of Yegor, congealed to immobility, devoid of
expression. It seemed strangely flat, only the eyes flashed with
animation and cheerfulness.
"I wish you'd give me something to eat. I'm frightfully hungry,"
Nikolay cried out unexpectedly, and smiled sheepishly.
"Granny, there's bread on the shelf--give it to him. Then go out
in the corridor, to the second door on the left, and knock. A woman
will open it, and you'll tell her to snatch up everything she has
to eat and come here."
"Why everything?" protested Nikolay.
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