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Updated: June 2, 2025
The few passers-by glanced at him unconcernedly, and even the children who hurried along with their school-bags under their arms seemed to find it perfectly natural that a tall brown gentleman should be standing there, looking up through his glasses at the gray housetops.
The girls at Higbee School that term had a craze for marking everything they owned with their monograms. Such fads run through schools like the measles. Their clothing, books, tennis rackets, school-bags everything that was possible blossomed with monograms, more or less ornate.
Both had hung their school-bags over their shoulders, and both were dressed warmly and well; Hans in a short seaman's jacket, over the shoulders and back of which lay the broad blue collar of his sailor suit, Tonio in a gray belted top-coat. Hans wore a Danish sailor's cap with short ribbons, a tuft of his flaxen hair peeping out from under it.
There were about twelve of them, they all had their school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. “Father will cry, be with father,” Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the boys remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them. “How glad I am you’ve come, Karamazov!” he cried, holding out his hand to Alyosha. “It’s awful here. It’s really horrible to see it.
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