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Foma, seated at the end of the table among some timid and modest men who were unfamiliar to him, now and again felt on himself the sharp glances of the old man. "He's afraid I'll make a scandal," thought Foma. "Brethren!" roared the monstrously stout ship builder Yashchurov, in a hoarse voice, "I can't do without herring! I must necessarily begin with herring, that's my nature."
"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!" "He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!" Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips were slightly quivering. "His son has returned," whispered Bobrov. "I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."
"What sort of a life is now possible to you? Do you know that now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on you?" "What have I done?" Foma tried to understand. The merchants stood around him in a dense, dark mass. "Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done." "Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice. "Let me free!" said Foma. "Well, no! we thank you humbly!"
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