You're
good people, yes. It's more than I can understand--as if I'd gotten
a hundred thousand miles away from the village--how he hit it off
about the middle--and in the middle are the people who lick the
hands--of those who beat the faces--um, yes."
And suddenly he gave a loud short snore and dropped off to sleep,
with eyebrows raised high and half-open mouth.
Late at night he sat in a little room of a basement at a table
opposite Vyesovshchikov. He said in a subdued tone, knitting his brows:
"On the middle window, four times."
"Four."
"At first three times like this"--he counted aloud as he tapped thrice
on the table with his forefinger. "Then waiting a little, once again."
"I understand."
"A red-haired peasant will open the door for you, and will ask you
for the midwife. You'll tell him, 'Yes, from the boss.' Nothing
else. He'll understand your business."
They sat with heads bent toward each other, both robust fellows,
conversing in half tones. The mother, with her arms folded on her
bosom, stood at the table looking at them. All the secret tricks
and passwords compelled her to smile inwardly as she thought, "Mere
children still.
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