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IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide.
After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch. "Goodness, three o'clock already," he moans. "Other people are asleep while I . . . I alone must work!" Shattered and exhausted he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice: "Nadya, get me some more tea! I . . . feel weak."
All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens. . . . He hears an even monotonous whispering. . . . It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger in the next room, saying his prayers. "I say!" cries Krasnyhin. "Couldn't you, please, say your prayers more quietly? You prevent me from writing!" "Very sorry. . . ." Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
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