Slowly raising his swollen hand, he
wiped his forehead with the palm. The strange immobility of his
swollen cheeks denaturalized his broad, good face, all the features
of which disappeared under the dead, bluish mask. Only his eyes,
deeply sunk beneath the swellings, looked out clear and smiling
benevolently.
"Oh, Science, I'm tired! May I lie down?"
"No, you mayn't."
"But I'm going to lie down after you go."
"Nilovna, please don't let him. It's bad for him."
The mother nodded. The physician hurried off with short steps.
Yegor threw back his head, closed his eyes and sank into a torpor,
motionless save for the twitching of his fingers. The white walls
of the little room seemed to radiate a dry coldness and a pale,
faceless sadness. Through the large window peered the tufted tops
of the lime trees, amid whose dark, dusty foliage yellow stains
were blazing, the cold touches of approaching autumn.
"Death is coming to me slowly, reluctantly," said Yegor without
moving and without opening his eyes. "He seems to be a little
sorry for me. I was such a fine, sociable chap."
"You'd better keep quiet, Yegor Ivanovich!" the mother bade, quietly
stroking his hand.
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