It was about 4 o'clock of an afternoon. I sat at the end of one of the
tables, a glass of Russian tea before me. There were two other
customers at that table, both poorly clad and, as it seemed to me,
ill-fed. Two tables in a narrow and dingier part of the room were
occupied by disheveled chess-players and three or four lookers-on.
Altogether there were about fifteen people in the place. Some of
the conversations were carried on aloud. A man with curly dark
hair who was eating soup at the table directly in front of me was
satirizing somebody between spoonfuls, relishing his acrimony as
if it were spice to his soup. A feminine voice back of me was
trying to prove to somebody that she did much more for her sister
than her sister did for her. I was wretchedly ill at ease at first. I
loathed myself for being here. I felt like one who had strayed into
a disreputable den. In addition, I was in dread of being
recognized. The man who sat by my side had the hair and the
complexion of a gipsy. He looked exhausted and morose.
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