This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1899 edition. Excerpt: ... his big shaggy head, and there are his immense mustaches. "Lord, take mercy upon me!" sighed Tikhon Pavlovich. Then he rose from the chair, took the flowers down from the sill, and seated himself there. The shadows on the floor became more distinct. Beyond the window it was quiet and awful. The trees ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1899 edition. Excerpt: ... his big shaggy head, and there are his immense mustaches. "Lord, take mercy upon me!" sighed Tikhon Pavlovich. Then he rose from the chair, took the flowers down from the sill, and seated himself there. The shadows on the floor became more distinct. Beyond the window it was quiet and awful. The trees stood motionless and ran together into a solid, dark wall, behind which you might imagine something terrible. And the water fell with a monotonous metallic sound from the mill wheel, as if counting out. Below the window, the long stems of hollyhocks waved dreamily. Tikhon Pavlovich made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes. Then his imagination began to reproduce to him the town affair that had taken him out of his beaten track. A funeral procession moves slowly over the dusty street upon which the hot sunbeams beat down. The vestments of the priest and deacon blind the eyes with their splendor; the censer rattles in the deacon's hands, and small clouds of blue smoke melt away in the air. "Ho-o," the small gray priest calls out in a fine tenor. "Ly!" rings out the thunderous bass of the deacon, a tall swarthy man, with a thick head of black hair and with large, kindly, smiling eyes. "Go-od," both voices run together and are carried into the cloudless height to the blinding sun, where all is emptiness and quiet. "Immo-ortal!" bellows the deacon, drowning with his voice all the noise of the street, --the creaking of the carriages, the pattering of steps on the sidewalk, and the subdued conversation of the big crowd in the procession, --he bellows, and opening wide his eyes, turns his bearded face to the public as if he wished to say: --"Well! didn't I make a fine note, though?" In the coffin lies a gentleman in a black coat, with a thin, ...
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