Liudmila silently thrust the manuscript into her belt and sat down
on a chair. A red gleam of the fire was reflected on her spectacles;
its hot smile played on her motionless face.
"When they come to me I'm going to shoot at them," she said with
determination in her moderated voice. "I have the right to protect
myself against violence; and I must fight with them if I call upon
others to fight. I cannot understand calmness; I don't like it."
The reflection of the fire glided across her face, and she again
became austere, somewhat haughty.
"Your life is not very pleasant," the mother thought kindly.
Liudmila began to read Pavel's speech, at first reluctantly; then
she bent lower and lower over the paper, quickly throwing aside
the pages as she read them. When she had finished she rose,
straightened herself, and walked up to the mother.
"That's good. That's what I like; although here, too, there's
calmness. But the speech is the sepulchral beat of a drum, and
the drummer is a powerful man."
She reflected a little while, lowering her head for a minute:
"I didn't want to speak with you about your son; I have never met
him, and I don't like sad subjects of conversation.
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