"Why, I knew it," she answered.
"But, after all, it's certain now. Who could have told beforehand
what the authorities would do? But Fedya is a fine fellow, dear soul."
They walked to the grill; the mother shed tears as she pressed the
hand of her son. He and Fedya spoke words, smiled, and joked. All
were excited, but light and cheerful. The women wept; but, like
Vlasova, more from habit than grief. They did not experience the
stunning pain produced by an unexpected blow on the head, but only
the sad consciousness that they must part with the children. But
even this consciousness was dimmed by the impressions of the day.
The fathers and the mothers looked at their children with mingled
sensations, in which the skepticism of parents toward their children
and the habitual sense of the superiority of elders over youth
blended strangely with the feeling of sheer respect for them, with
the persistent melancholy thought that life had now become dull,
and with the curiosity aroused by the young men who so bravely and
fearlessly spoke of the possibility of a new life, which the elders
did not comprehend but which seemed to promise something good. The
very novelty and unusualness of the feeling rendered expression
impossible.
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