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Updated: April 30, 2025
Sasha pictured the drinking-party before him, and, among the bottles, the women, and his friends, the thought flashed through his mind: "Now I see that I am a criminal; yes, I am a criminal." AT eight o'clock on the evening of the twentieth of May all the six batteries of the N Reserve Artillery Brigade halted for the night in the village of Myestetchki on their way to camp.
Ryabovitch gazed for the last time at Myestetchki, and he felt as sad as though he were parting with something very near and dear to him. And before him on the road lay nothing but long familiar, uninteresting pictures. . . . To right and to left, fields of young rye and buckwheat with rooks hopping about in them.
And on the evenings when the officers, out on the spree with the setter Lobytko at their head, made Don Juan excursions to the "suburb," and Ryabovitch took part in such excursions, he always was sad, felt profoundly guilty, and inwardly begged her forgiveness. . . . In hours of leisure or on sleepless nights, when he felt moved to recall his childhood, his father and mother everything near and dear, in fact, he invariably thought of Myestetchki, the strange horse, Von Rabbek, his wife who was like the Empress Eugénie, the dark room, the crack of light at the door. . . .
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