The peasant walked away from her, sullenly nodding his head.
"The authorities have hired a whole lot of assistants to do their
dirty work for them. Yes, yes." He turned abruptly toward the
mother again and said softly: "Here's what I guessed--that you have
papers in the valise. Is that true?"
"Yes," answered the mother simply, wiping away her tears. "I was
bringing them to him."
He lowered his brows, gathered his beard into his hand, and looking
on the floor was silent for a time.
"The papers reached us, too; some books, also. We need them all.
They are so true. I can do very little reading myself, but I have
a friend--he can. My wife also reads to me." The peasant pondered
for a moment. "Now, then, what are you going to do with them--
with the valise?"
The mother looked at him.
"I'll leave it to you."
He was not surprised, did not protest, but only said curtly, "To us,"
and nodded his head in assent. He let go of his beard, but continued
to comb it with his fingers as he sat down.
With inexorable, stubborn persistency the mother's memory held up
before her eyes the scene of Rybin's torture. His image extinguished
all thoughts in her mind.
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