More than once, by
night, remaining all by himself, he would firmly close his eyes
and picture to himself a dark throng of people, innumerably great
and even terrible in its immenseness. Crowded together somewhere
in a deep valley, which was surrounded by hillocks, and filled
with a dusty mist, this throng jostled one another on the same
place in noisy confusion, and looked like grain in a hopper. It
was as though an invisible millstone, hidden beneath the feet of
the crowd, were grinding it, and people moved about it like
waves-- now rushing downward to be ground the sooner and
disappear, now bursting upward in the effort to escape the
merciless millstone. There were also people who resembled crabs
just caught and thrown into a huge basket--clutching at one
another, they twined about heavily, crawled somewhere and
interfered with one another, and could do nothing to free
themselves from captivity.
Foma saw familiar faces amid the crowd: there his father is
walking boldly, sturdily pushing aside and overthrowing everybody
on his way; he is working with his long paws, massing everything
with his chest, and laughing in thundering tones.
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