Petunikoff smiled the smile of the conqueror, and went back into
the dosshouse, but suddenly he stopped and trembled. At the door
facing him stood an old man with a stick in his hand and a large
bag on his back, a horrible old man in rags and tatters, which
covered his bony figure. He bent under the weight of his burden,
and lowered his head on his breast, as if he wished to attack the
merchant.
"What are you? Who are you?" shouted Petunikoff.
"A man . . ." he answered in a hoarse voice. This hoarseness
pleased and tranquillised Petunikoff, he even smiled.
"A man! And are there really men like you?" Stepping aside he
let the old man pass. He went, saying slowly:
"Men are of various kinds . . . as God wills. . . There are
worse than me . . . still worse . . . Yes . . ."
The cloudy sky hung silently over the dirty yard and over the
cleanly-dressed man with the pointed beard, who was walking about
there, measuring distances with his steps and with his sharp
eyes. On the roof of the old house a crow perched and croaked,
thrusting its head now backwards, now forwards. In the lowering
grey clouds, which hid the sky, there was something hard and
merciless, as if they had gathered together to wash all the dirt
off the face of this unfortunate, suffering, and sorrowful earth.
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