If you only knew what I think of you, you dogs, what
wrath I bear against you! And because of this wrath--I am silent!
For I fear that if I should sing it to you--my soul would become
empty. I would have nothing to live on." Foma looked at her, and
now he was pleased with her. In her words there was something
akin to his frame of mind. Laughing, he said to her, with
satisfaction on his face and in his voice:
"And I also feel that something is growing within my soul. Eh, I
too shall have my say, when the time comes."
"Against whom?" asked Sasha, carelessly.
"I--against everybody!" exclaimed Foma, jumping to his feet.
"Against falsehood. I shall ask--"
"Ask whether the samovar is ready," Sasha ordered indifferently.
Foma glanced at her and cried, enraged:
"Go to the devil! Ask yourself."
"Well, all right, I shall. What are you snarling about?"
And she stepped out of the hut.
In piercing gusts the wind blew across the river, striking
against its bosom, and covered with troubled dark waves, the
river was spasmodically rushing toward the wind with a noisy
splash, and all in the froth of wrath.
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