When Foma opened the door and stopped respectfully on the threshold
of the small room, whose only window overlooked the rusty roof of
the neighbouring house, he noticed that the old Shchurov had just
risen from sleep, and sitting on his bed, leaning his hands against
it, he stared at the ground; and he was so bent that his long,
white beard fell over his knees. But even bent, he was large.
"Who entered?" asked Anany in a hoarse and angry voice, without
lifting his head.
"I. How do you do, Anany Savvich?"
The old man raised his head slowly and, winking his large eyes,
looked at Foma.
"Ignat's son, is that right?"
"The same."
"Well, come over here, sit down by the window. Let me see how
you've grown up. Will you not have a glass of tea with me?"
"I wouldn't mind."
"Waiter!" cried the old man, expanding his chest, and, taking his
beard in his hand, he began to examine Foma in silence. Foma also
looked at him stealthily.
The old man's lofty forehead was all covered with wrinkles, and its
skin was dark. Gray, curly locks covered his temples and his sharp-
pointed ears; his calm blue eyes lent the upper part of his face a
wise and good expression.
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