"I buy lace from the women, and linen, too."
The peasant slowly stroked his beard. Then looking up at the town
hall he said gloomily and softly:
"You won't, find anything of that kind here."
The mother looked down on him, and waited for a more suitable moment
to depart for the tavern. The peasant's face was thoughtful and
handsome and his eyes were sad. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was
dressed in a patched-up coat, in a clean chintz shirt, and reddish
homespun trousers. His feet were stockingless.
The mother for some reason drew a sigh of relief, and suddenly
obeying an impulse from within, yielding to an instinct that got
the better of her reason, she surprised herself by asking him:
"Can I stay in your house overnight?"
At the question everything in her muscles, her bones, tightened
stiffly. She straightened herself, holding her breath, and fixed
her eyes on the peasant. Pricking thoughts quickly flashed through
her mind: "I'll ruin everybody--Nikolay Ivanovich, Sonyushka--I'll
not see Pasha for a long time--they'll kill him----"
Looking on the ground, the peasant answered deliberately, folding
his coat over his breast:
"Stay overnight? Yes, you can.
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