"
"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!"
"He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!"
Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the
engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared
into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips
were slightly quivering.
"His son has returned," whispered Bobrov.
"I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"A business-like, clever fellow."
"Is that so?"
"He manages a big business in Oosolye."
"Consequently Yakov does not need this one. Yes. So that's it."
"Look, he's weeping!"
"Oh?"
Foma was sitting leaning against the back of the chair, and
drooping his head on the shoulder. His eyes were shut, and from
under his eyelids tears were trickling one after another. They
coursed down his cheeks into his moustache. Foma's lips quivered
convulsively, and the tears fell from his moustache upon his
breast. He was silent and motionless, only his chest heaved
unevenly, and with difficulty. The merchants looked at his pale,
tear-stained face, grown lean with suffering, with the corners of
his lips lowered downward, and walked away from him quietly and
mutely.
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