Then followed a lean and bony man of whom no one knew anything,
with a frightened expression in his eyes, the left one of which
had a squint. He was silent and timid, and had been imprisoned
three times for theft by the High Court of Justice and the
Magisterial Courts. His family name was Kiselnikoff, but they
called him Paltara Taras, because he was a head and shoulders
taller than his friend, Deacon Taras, who had been degraded from
his office for drunkenness and immorality. The Deacon was a
short, thick-set person, with the chest of an athlete and a
round, strong head. He danced skilfully, and was still more
skilful at swearing. He and Paltara Taras worked in the wood on
the banks of the river, and in free hours he told his friend or
any one who would listen, "Tales of my own composition," as he
used to say. On hearing these stories, the heroes of which
always seemed to be saints, kings, priests, or generals, even the
inmates of the dosshouse spat and rubbed their eyes in
astonishment at the imagination of the Deacon, who told them
shameless tales of lewd, fantastic adventures, with blinking eyes
and a passionless expression of countenance.
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