A young man entered with a yellow valise in his hand, quickly looked
around, and walked straight to the mother.
"To Moscow, to your niece?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes, to Tanya."
"Very well."
He put the valise on the bench near her, quickly whipped out a
cigarette, lighted it, and raising his hat, silently walked toward
the other door. The mother stroked the cold skin of the valise,
leaned her elbows on it, and, satisfied, began again to look around
at the people. In a few moments she arose and walked over to the
other bench, nearer to the exit to the platform. She held the
valise lightly in her hand; it was not large, and she walked with
raised head, scanning the faces that flashed before her.
One man in a short overcoat and its collar raised jostled against
her and jumped back, silently waving his hand toward his head.
Something familiar about him struck her; she glanced around and saw
that he was looking at her with one eye gleaming out of his collar.
This attentive eye pricked her; the hand in which she held the
valise trembled; she felt a dull pain in her shoulder, and the load
suddenly grew heavy.
"I've seen him somewhere," she thought, and with the thought
suppressed the unpleasant, confused feeling in her breast.
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