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And she turned away, sat down at the table, and took up her book again. In the early hours of the morning a horse was yoked, and Agrenev drove with Bitska over the main road to the station. It was wet. The sombre figures of workmen were dimly seen through the rain and darkness, hastening to the factory. The staff drove round in a motor as the shrill sound of the factory horn split the silence.
His skin jacket was sticking to Agrenev's back, as, no doubt, Bitska's was also. "My missus will soon be home," Bitska said cheerfully he had recently been married. He spoke in broken Russian, with a foreign accent. In Agrenev's house it was dark.
At home four walls ... Coldness ... The miner, Bitska, making jokes all day in the rain ... the fuse to be lighted in the quarry, the slow igniting to be watched. Thirty years had been lived ... five- tenths of his life ... a half ... ten-twentieths. It was like a blank cartridge ... no kindness ... a life without feeling ... all blank ...
Bitska in a bowler-hat, red-faced, with thin whiskers such as are worn by the Letts, looked gravely round: "You have not slept, Robert Edouardovitch?" asked Agrenev. "No, I have not, and I am not in a good humour either." The man was silent a moment, then burst out; "Now I am forty years, and my vife she is eighteen. I am in vants of an earnest housekeeper.
The autumn darkness, with its sharp, acid, sweet tang, was already falling as Agrenev proceeded homeward with the head-miner, Eduardovich Bitska, a Lithuanian, and the lights from the engine- house shone brightly in the distance.
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