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"They will show no mercy," the peasant assented calmly, and resumed his examination of the books. "Drink your tea, Yefim; we've got to leave soon," said Rybin. "Directly." And Yefim asked again: "Revolution is an uprising, isn't it?" Andrey came, red, perspiring, and dejected. He shook Yefim's hand without saying anything, sat down by Rybin's side, and smiled as he looked at him.
Tall and supple, seated on a pile of wood, she repaired sacks, quickly moving her hands, which were bare up to the elbows, and she smiled at Foma all the time. "Foma Ignatyich!" he heard Yefim's reproachful voice, "you've showed off too much. Well, if it were only about fifty puds! But why so much? Look out that we don't get a good scolding for this." "Leave me alone!" said Foma, shortly.
None of the sailors replied to Yefim's grumbling, and even the one who worked with him was silent, only now and then protesting against the earnestness with which Yefim piled up the wood on the stretchers. "Enough!" he would say, morosely, "you are not loading a horse, are you?" "And you had better keep quiet.
Yefim's cheeks are rosy and his eyes are shining, and there is a peculiar keenness in his glance, as though he were seeing right through the hut and the doctor. "Come, what is it? What are you thinking about?" says the doctor, bending down to him. "Aha! have you had this long?" "What? Dying, your honour, my hour has come. . . . I am not to stay among the living." "Don't talk nonsense!
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