"
He grew abruptly silent, reflected for a moment, and asked: "Tell
me, mother, this man--is he a relative of yours?"
"A stranger."
Pyotr threw his head back and laughed noiselessly, very well
satisfied with something. To the mother, however, it seemed the
very next instant that, in reference to Rybin, the word "stranger"
was not in place; it jarred upon her.
"I'm not a relative of his; but I've known him for a long time, and
I look up to him as to an elder brother."
She was pained and displeased not to find the word she wanted, and
she could not suppress a quiet groan. A sad stillness pervaded the
hut. Pyotr leaned his head upon one shoulder; his little beard,
narrow and sharp, stuck out comically on one side, and gave his
shadow swinging on the wall the appearance of a man sticking out his
tongue teasingly. Stepan sat with his elbows on the table, and beat
a tattoo on the boards. His wife stood at the oven without stirring;
the mother felt her look riveted upon herself and often glanced at the
woman's face--oval, swarthy, with a straight nose, and a chin cut off
short; her dark and thick eyebrows joined sternly, her eyelids drooped,
and from under them her greenish eyes shone sharply and intently.
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