"Hold him."
"Well, hold me!" said Foma with sadness and bitterness. "Hold me-
-what do you need me for?"
"Sit still!" cried his godfather, sternly.
Foma became silent. He now understood that what he had done was
of no avail, that his words had not staggered the merchants. Here
they stood, surrounding him in a dense throng, and he could not
see anything for them. They were calm, firm, treating him as a
drunkard and a turbulent fellow, and were plotting something
against him. He felt himself pitiful, insignificant, crushed by
that dark mass of strong-souled, clever and sedate people. It
seemed to him that a long time had passed since he had abused
them, so long a time that he himself seemed as a stranger,
incapable of comprehending what he had done to these people, and
why he had done it. He even experienced in himself a certain
feeling of offence, which resembled shame at himself in his own
eyes. There was a tickling sensation in his throat, and he felt
there was something foreign in his breast, as though some dust or
ashes were strewn upon his heart, and it throbbed unevenly and
with difficulty.
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