There occurred that morning a strange little conversation between Vera,
Semyonov, Nicholas Markovitch, and myself. I arrived about ten o'clock
to see how they were and to hear the news. I found Vera sitting quietly
at the table sewing. Markovitch stood near to her, his anxious eyes and
trembling mouth perched on the top of his sharp peaky collar and his
hands rubbing nervously one within another. He was obviously in a state
of very great excitement. Semyonov sat opposite Vera, leaning his thick
body on his arms, his eyes watching his niece and every once and again
his firm pale hand stroking his beard.
When I joined them he said to me:
"Well, Ivan Andreievitch, what's the latest news of your splendid
Revolution?"
"Why my Revolution?" I asked. I felt an especial dislike this morning of
his sneering eyes and his thick pale honey-coloured beard. "Whose ever
it was he should be proud of it. To see thousands of people who've been
hungry for months wandering about as I've seen them this morning and
none of them touching a thing--it's stupendous!"
Semyonov smiled but said nothing. His smile irritated me.
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