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In the street he stood still and, saying good-by to his friends, dragged himself languidly to the University. "To whom shall I tell my grief?" THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost.
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