"Wait, granny, I'll be silent soon."
Losing breath every once in a while, enunciating the words with a
mighty effort, he continued his talk, interrupted by long spells
of faintness.
"It's splendid to have you with me. It's pleasant to see your face,
granny, and your eyes so alert, and your naivete. 'How will it
end?' I ask myself. It's sad to think that the prison, exile, and
all sorts of vile outrages await you as everybody else. Are you
afraid of prison?"
"No," answered the mother softly.
"But after all the prison is a mean place. It's the prison that
knocked me up. To tell you the truth, I don't want to die."
"Maybe you won't die yet," the mother was about to say, but a look
at his face froze the words on her lips.
"If I hadn't gotten sick I could have worked yet, not badly; but if
you can't work there's nothing to live for, and it's stupid to live."
"That's true, but it's no consolation." Andrey's words flashed into
the mother's mind, and she heaved a deep sigh. She was greatly
fatigued by the day, and hungry. The monotonous, humid, hoarse
whisper of the sick man filled the room and crept helplessly along
the smooth, cold, shining walls.
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