"It is cold, and it will soon be dark."
"Stepan! Clear everything away!" commanded Vassa.
All began to bustle about, all began to speak of something. Foma
stared at them in suspense and shuddered. Staggering, the crowd
walked along the rafts. Pale and fatigued, they said to one
another stupid, disconnected things. Sasha jostled them
unceremoniously, as she was getting her things together.
"Stepan! Call for the horses!"
"And I'll drink some more cognac. Who wants some more cognac with
me?" drawled the gentleman with the side whiskers in a beatific
voice, holding a bottle in his hands.
Vassa was muffling Zvantzev's neck with a scarf. He stood in
front of her, frowning, dissatisfied, his lips curled
capriciously, the calves of his legs shivering. Foma became
disgusted as he looked at them, and he went off to the other
raft. He was astonished that all these people behaved as though
they had not heard the song at all. In his breast the song was
alive and there it called to life a restless desire to do
something, to say something.
Pages:
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336