"Your opinion," said the old judge.
The bald-headed prosecuting attorney arose, and, steadying himself
on the desk with one hand, began to speak rapidly, quoting figures.
In his voice nothing terrible was heard.
At the same time, however, a sudden dry, shooting attack disturbed
the heart of the mother. It was an uneasy suspicion of something
hostile to her, which did not threaten, did not shout, but unfolded
itself unseen, soundless, intangible. It swung lazily and dully
about the judges, as if enveloping them with an impervious cloud,
through which nothing from the outside could reach them. She looked
at them. They were incomprehensible to her. They were not angry at
Pavel or at Fedya; they did not shout at the young men, as she had
expected; they did not abuse them in words, but put all their
questions reluctantly, with the air of "What's the use?". It cost
them an effort to hear the answers to the end. Apparently they
lacked interest because they knew everything beforehand.
There before her stood the gendarme, and spoke in a bass voice:
"Pavel Vlasov was named as the ringleader."
"And Nakhodka?" asked the fat judge in his lazy undertone.
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