"And so you lived with your wife happily," he said. "Well, what
can you do? To the dead belongs paradise, and the living must
live on. You are not so very old as yet. Have you been a widower
long?"
"This is the third year."
"So? And how did you chance upon the soda factory?"
"That belongs to my father-in-law."
"Aha! What is your salary?"
"About five thousand."
"Mm. That's not a stale crust. Yes, that's a galley slave for
you!"
Taras glanced at his father with a firm look and asked him drily:
"By the way, what makes you think that I was a convict?"
The old man glanced at his son with astonishment, which was
quickly changed into joy:
"Ah! What then? You were not? The devil take them! Then--how was
it? Don't take offence! How could I know? They said you were in
Siberia! Well, and there are the galleys!"
"To make an end of this once for all," said Taras, seriously and
impressively, clapping his hand on his knee, "I'll tell you right
now how it all happened. I was banished to Siberia to settle
there for six years, and, during all the time of my exile, I
lived in the mining region of the Lena.
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