Foma stepped aside in confusion, seated himself in an armchair,
and, petrified with curiosity, wide-eyed, began to watch the
meeting of father and son.
The father, standing in the doorway, swayed his feeble body,
leaning his hands against the door posts, and, with his head bent
on one side and eyes half shut, stared at his son in silence. The
son stood about three steps away from him; his head already gray,
was lifted high; he knitted his brow and gazed at his father with
large dark eyes. His small, black, pointed beard and his small
moustache quivered on his meagre face, with its gristly nose,
like that of his father. And the hat, also, quivered in his hand.
From behind his shoulder Foma saw the pale, frightened and joyous
face of Luba--she looked at her father with beseeching eyes and
it seemed she was on the point of crying out. For a few moments
all were silent and motionless, crushed as they were by the
immensity of their emotions. The silence was broken by the low,
but dull and quivering voice of Yakov Tarasovich:
"You have grown old, Taras.
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