...
Bohun could endure it no longer; he got up, put on his dressing-gown and
bedroom slippers, and went out. When he got as far as the dining-room
door he saw that Markovitch was standing in the middle of the room with
a lighted candle in his hand. The glimmer of the candle flung a circle,
outside which all was dusk. Within the glimmer there was Markovitch, his
hair rough and strangely like a wig, his face pale yellow, and wearing
an old quilted bed-jacket of a purple green colour. He was in a
night-dress, and his naked legs were like sticks of tallow.
He stood there, the candle shaking in his hand, as though he were
uncertain as to what he would do next. He was saying something to
himself, Bohun thought.
At any rate his lips were moving. Then he put his hand into the pocket
of his bed-coat and took out a revolver. Bohun saw it gleam in the
candle-light. He held it up close to his eyes as though he were
short-sighted and seemed to sniff at it. Then, clumsily, Bohun said, he
opened it, to see whether it were loaded, I suppose, and closed it
again. After that, very softly indeed, he shuffled off towards the door
of Semyonov's room, the room that had once been the sanctuary of his
inventions.
Pages:
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542