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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Uncle Terenty," says Fyokia, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the cobbler's coat. "Brother Danilka has had an accident! Come along!" "What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . . What sort of accident?" "In the count's copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out!"
Her brother looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it. "Hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "Do you know where you got that from, Fyokia, old girl? There are Spanish flies on some tree in the wood. The rain has trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck that's what has made the swelling."
"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "Uncle, darling!" Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread with a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look at something little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved. "Ah! servant of God, Fyokia," he says, lisping tenderly, "where have you come from?"
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