In the street, acquaintances from the suburbs had greeted her. She
had bowed in silence, rapidly making her way through the dense,
crowd in the corridor of the courthouse. In the hall she was met by
relatives of the defendants, who also spoke to her in undertones.
All the words seemed needless; she didn't understand them. Yet all
the people were sullen, filled with the same mournful feeling which
infected the mother and weighed her down.
"Let's sit next to each other," suggested Sizov, going to a bench.
She sat down obediently, settled her dress, and looked around.
Green and crimson specks, with thin yellow threads between, slowly
swam before her eyes.
"Your son has ruined our Vasya," a woman sitting beside her said quietly.
"You keep still, Natalya!" Sizov chided her angrily.
Nilovna looked at the woman; it was the mother of Samoylov. Farther
along sat her husband--bald-headed, bony-faced, dapper, with a
large, bushy, reddish beard which trembled as he sat looking in
front of himself, his eyes screwed up.
A dull, immobile light entered through the high windows of the hall,
outside of which snow glided and fell lingeringly on the ground.
Between the windows hung a large portrait of the Czar in a massive
frame of glaring gilt.
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