Others bend their backs over their work all their lives, and yet
they have not even a grosh. And the difference in people is very
insignificant. There are some that have not even any trousers and
yet they reason as though they were attired in silks."
Carried away by his thoughts, Foma would have continued to give
them utterance, but Taras moved his armchair away from the table,
rose and said softly, with a sigh:
"No, thank you! I don't want any more."
Foma broke off his speech abruptly, shrugged his shoulders and
looked at Lubov with a smile.
"Where have you picked up such philosophy?" she asked,
suspiciously and drily.
"That is not philosophy. That is simply torture!" said Foma in an
undertone. "Open your eyes and look at everything. Then you will
think so yourself."
"By the way, Luba, turn your attention to the fact," began Taras,
standing with his back toward the table and scrutinizing the
clock, "that pessimism is perfectly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon
race. That which they call pessimism in Swift and in Byron is
only a burning, sharp protest against the imperfection of life
and man.
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