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Updated: May 21, 2025
So I called Isaac out; an' the stranger grips 'en by the hand an' kisses 'en, sayin', 'Little father, take me to their graves. My name is Feodor Himkoff, an' my brother Dmitry was among the crew of the Viatka. You would know his body, if you buried it, for the second finger was gone from his right hand.
"Feodor sends us these," said the old woman, bringing a dish of Cornish cream and a home-made loaf to give the feast a basis. "Who's Feodor?" "Feodor Himkoff." She paused a moment, and added, "He's mate on a Russian vessel." "A friend?" The question went unnoticed. "Is there any you fancy?" she asked. "Some o't may be outlandish eatin'." "Do you like these things?"
Glancing up presently, however, I saw her eyes still fixed on me, and laid down my knife. "I can't help it," I said, "I want to know about Feodor Himkoff." "There's no secret," she answered. "Leastways, there was one, but either God has condemned or forgiven afore now. Look at my man there; he's done all the repentin' he's likely to do." After a few seconds' hesitation she went on
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