Of course, they snatched Spivakin off to prison.
But the word remained, and even the little boys know it. It lives!
It shouts! And perhaps in our days the word is worth more than a
man. People are stupefied and deadened by their absorption in
breadwinning. Yes."
Pyotr did not eat, but kept on talking in a quick whisper, his dark,
roguish eyes gleaming merrily. He lavishly scattered before the
mother innumerable little observations on the village life--they
rolled from him like copper coins from a full purse.
Stepan several times reminded him: "Why don't you eat?" Pyotr
would then seize a piece of bread and a spoon and fall to talking
and sputtering again like a goldfinch. Finally, after the meal, he
jumped to his feet and announced:
"Well, it's time for me to go home. Good-by, mother!" and he shook
her hand and nodded his head. "Maybe we shall never see each other
again. I must say to you that all this is very good--to meet you
and hear your speeches--very good! Is there anything in your valise
beside the printed matter? A shawl? Excellent! A shawl, remember,
Stepan. He'll bring you the valise at once. Come, Stepan. Good-by.
I wish everything good to you.
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