Sitting in it with a policeman on either side,
Rybin shouted dully:
"For the sake of what are you perishing--in hunger? Strive for
freedom--it'll give you bread and--truth. Farewell, good people!"
The hasty rumble of the wheels, the tramp of the horses, the shout
of the police officer, enveloped his speech and muffled it.
"It's done!" said the peasant, shaking his head. "You wait at the
station a little while, and I'll come soon."
CHAPTER XI
The mother went to the room in the tavern, sat herself at the table
in front of the samovar, took a piece of bread in her hand, looked
at it, and slowly put it back on the plate. She was not hungry; the
feeling in her breast rose again and flushed her with nausea. She
grew faint and dizzy; the blood was sucked from her heart. Before
her stood the face of the blue-eyed peasant. It was a face that
expressed nothing and failed to arouse confidence. For some reason
the mother did not want to tell herself in so many words that he
would betray her. The suspicion lay deep in her breast--a dead
weight, dull and motionless.
"He scented me!" she thought idly and faintly. "He noticed--he
guessed." Further than this her thoughts would not go, and she
sank into an oppressive despondency.
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