Straight, austere folds of the heavy crimson
window drapery dropped over either side of it. Before the portrait,
across almost the entire breadth of the hall, stretched the table
covered with green cloth. To the right of the wall, behind the
grill, stood two wooden benches; to the left two rows of crimson
armchairs. Attendants with green collars and yellow buttons on
their abdomens ran noiselessly about the hall. A soft whisper
hummed in the turbid atmosphere, and the odor was a composite of
many odors as in a drug shop. All this--the colors, the glitter,
the sounds and odors--pressed on the eyes and invaded the breast
with each inhalation. It forced out live sensations, and filled
the desolate heart with motionless, dismal awe.
Suddenly one of the people said something aloud. The mother
trembled. All arose; she, too, rose, seizing Sizov's hand.
In the left corner of the hall a high door opened and an old man
emerged, swinging to and fro. On his gray little face shook white,
sparse whiskers; he wore eyeglasses; the upper lip, which was
shaven, sank into his mouth as by suction; his sharp jawbones and
his chin were supported by the high collar of his uniform; apparently
there was no neck under the collar.
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