"Be gone!" said Foma in a heavy voice, staring at the wall with
his eyes wide open.
Having kissed him on the cheek she walked out of the cabin,
saying to him:
"Well, good-bye."
Foma felt intolerably ashamed in her presence; but no sooner did
she disappear behind the door than he jumped up and seated
himself on the lounge. Then he arose, staggering, and at once he
was seized with the feeling of having lost something very valuable,
something whose presence he did not seem to have noticed in himself
until the moment it was lost. But immediately a new, manly feeling
of self-pride took possession of him. It drowned his shame, and,
instead of the shame, pity for the woman sprang up within him--
for the half-clad woman, who went out alone into the dark of the
chilly May night. He hastily came out on the deck--it was a starlit,
but moonless night; the coolness and the darkness embraced him. On the
shore the golden-red pile of coals was still glimmering. Foma
listened--
an oppressive stillness filled the air, only the water was murmuring,
breaking against the anchor chains.
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