Such a person in herself was no
longer; she had gone off to a great distance, and perhaps was
altogether burned up by the fire of agitation. This had lightened
and cleansed her soul, and had renovated her heart with a new power.
She communed with herself, desiring to take a look into her own
heart, and fearing lest she awaken some anxiety there.
"What are you thinking about?" Liudmila asked kindly, walking up to her.
"I don't know."
The two women were silent, looking at each other. Both smiled; then
Liudmila walked out of the room, saying:
"What is my samovar doing?"
The mother looked through the window. A cold, bracing day shone
in the street; her breast, too, shone bright, but hot. She wanted
to speak much about everything, joyfully, with a confused feeling
of gratitude to somebody--she did not know whom--for all that came
into her soul, and lighted it with a ruddy evening light. A desire
to pray, which she had not felt for a long time, arose in her breast.
Somebody's young face came to her memory, somebody's resonant voice
shouted, "That's the mother of Pavel Vlasov!" Sasha's eyes flashed
joyously and tenderly. Rybin's dark, tall figure loomed up, the
bronzed, firm face of her son smiled.
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