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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Ach, the damned mountains!" sighed Laevsky. "How sick I am of them!" At the place where the Black River falls into the Yellow, and the water black as ink stains the yellow and struggles with it, stood the Tatar Kerbalay's duhan, with the Russian flag on the roof and with an inscription written in chalk: "The Pleasant duhan."
The flag on the duhan hung limp, soaked by the rain, and the duhan itself with its wet roof seemed darker and lower than it had been before. Near the door was standing a cart; Kerbalay, with two mountaineers and a young Tatar woman in trousers no doubt Kerbalay's wife or daughter were bringing sacks of something out of the duhan, and putting them on maize straw in the cart.
"Delighted. To-morrow morning early near Kerbalay's. I leave all details to your taste. And now, clear out!" "I hate you," Laevsky said softly, breathing hard. "I have hated you a long while! A duel! Yes!" "Get rid of him, Alexandr Daviditch, or else I'm going," said Von Koren. "He'll bite me."
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