"You are young; you will still have children," she said kindly.
The woman did not answer immediately. Then she whispered:
"No, no. I'm spoiled. The doctor says I'll never be able to have
a child again."
A mouse ran across the floor, something cracked--a flash of sound
flaring up in the noiselessness. The autumn rain again rustled on
the thatch like light thin fingers running over the roof. Large
drops of water dismally fell to the ground, marking the slow course
of the autumn night. Hollow steps on the street, then on the porch,
awoke the mother from a heavy slumber. The door opened carefully.
"Tatyana!" came the low call. "Are you in bed already?"
"No."
"Is she asleep?"
"It seems she is."
A light flared up, trembled, and sank into the darkness.
The peasant walked over to the mother's bed, adjusted the sheepskin
over her, and wrapped up her feet. The attention touched the mother
in its simplicity. She closed her eyes again and smiled. Stepan
undressed in silence, crept up to the loft, and all became quiet.
CHAPTER XII
The mother lay motionless, with ears strained in the drowsy
stillness, and before her in the darkness wavered Rybin's face
covered with blood.
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