Markovitch was like a madman, his hands raised, his eyes staring from
his head, his body trembling. Semyonov was quiet, motionless, smiling,
standing very close to the other.
"Well, what are you going to do?" he asked.
Markovitch stood for a moment, his hands raised, then his whole body
seemed to collapse. He moved away, muttering something which Bohun could
not hear. With shuffling feet, his head lowered, he went out of the
room. Semyonov returned to his seat.
To Bohun, an innocent youth with very simple and amiable ideas about
life, the whole thing seemed "beastly beyond words."
"I saw a man torture a dog once," he told me. "He didn't do much to it
really. Tied it up to a tree and dug into it with a pen-knife. I went
home and was sick.... Well, I felt sick this time, too."
Nevertheless his own "sickness" was not the principal affair. The point
was the sense of danger that seemed now to tinge with its own faint
stain every article in the room. Bohun's hatred of Semyonov was so
strong that he felt as though he would never be able to speak to him
again; but it was not really of Semyonov that he was thinking.
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