"Goodbye, for a short while! I'll not go back on my own. I love
it. I love you, too. Never mind, you're a good fellow!" said
Mayakin, softly, and as though out of breath.
"Do not love me, but teach me. But then, you cannot teach me the
right thing!" said Foma, as he turned his back on the old man and
left the hall.
Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin remained in the tavern alone. He sat by
the table, and, bending over it, made drawings of patterns on the
tray, dipping his trembling finger in the spilt kvass, and his
sharp-pointed head was sinking lower and lower over the table, as
though he did not decipher, and could not make out what his bony
finger was drawing on the tray.
Beads of perspiration glistened on his bald crown, and as usual
the wrinkles on his cheeks quivered with frequent, irritable
starts.
In the tavern a resounding tumult smote the air so that the
window-panes were rattling. From the Volga were wafted the
whistlings of steamers, the dull beating of the wheels upon the
water, the shouting of the loaders--life was moving onward
unceasingly and unquestionably.
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