Scant in feeling,
rich in words, the speech seemed not to reach Pavel and his comrade.
Apparently it touched none of them; they all sat there quite composed,
smiling at times as before, and conversed without sound. At times
they frowned to cover up their smiles.
"He lies!" whispered Sizov.
She could not have said it. She understood that the prosecuting
attorney charged all the comrades with guilt, not singling out any
one of them. After having spoken about Pavel, he spoke about Fedya,
and having put him side by side with Pavel, he persistently thrust
Bukin up against them. It seemed as if he packed and sewed them
into a sack, piling them up on top of one another. But the external
sense of his words did not satisfy, did not touch, did not frighten
her. She still waited for the horrible, and rigorously sought
something beyond his words--something in his face, his eyes, his
voice, in his white hand, which slowly glided in the air. Something
terrible must be there; she felt it, but it was impalpable; it did
not yield to her consciousness, which again covered her heart with
a dry, pricking dust.
She looked at the judges. There was no gainsaying that they were
bored at having to listen to this speech.
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