"I
merely said it because it looked ridiculous to me, such a sedate
old fellow, with beard trimmed in foreign fashion, cigar in his
mouth. Who is he? My son--he-he-he!" the old man tapped Taras on
the shoulder and sprang away from him, as though frightened lest
he were rejoicing too soon, lest that might not be the proper way
to treat that half gray man. And he looked searchingly and
suspiciously into his son's large eyes, which were surrounded by
yellowish swellings.
Taras smiled in his father's face an affable and warm smile, and
said to him thoughtfully:
"That's the way I remember you--cheerful and lively. It looks as
though you had not changed a bit during all these years."
The old man straightened himself proudly, and, striking his
breast with his fist, said:
"I shall never change, because life has no power over him who
knows his own value. Isn't that so?"
"Oh! How proud you are!"
"I must have taken after my son," said the old man with a cunning
grimace. "Do you know, dear, my son was silent for seventeen
years out of pride.
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