To-night only the churches had their lights; for the rest, the streets
were black chasms of windy desolation, the canals burdened with the
breaking ice which moved restlessly against the dead barges. Very strong
in the air was the smell of the sea; the heavy clouds that moved in a
strange kind of ordered procession overhead seemed to carry that scent
with them, and in the dim pale shadows of the evening glow one seemed to
see at the end of every street mysterious clusters of masts, and to hear
the clank of chains and the creak of restless boards. There were few
people about and a great silence everywhere. The air was damp and thick,
and smelt of rotten soil, as though dank grass was everywhere pushing
its way up through the cobbles and paving-stones.
As we walked Markovitch talked incessantly. It was only a very little
the talk of a drunken man, scarcely disconnected at all, but every now
and again running into sudden little wildnesses and extravagances. I
cannot remember nearly all that he said. He came suddenly, as I expected
him to do, to the subject of Semyonov.
"You know of course that Alexei Petrovitch is living with us now?"
"Yes.
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