We none of us knew what to say. What _could_ we say? This
appalling day had sunk for us all individualities. We were scarcely
aware of one another's names and here was Marie Ivanovna thrusting all
these personalities upon us. Sister Sofia's red-rimmed eyes glittered
with pleasure but she only said: "Oh, dear, I'm very sorry." Sister
K---- who was always without tact made a most uncomfortable remark:
"Poor Mr.!..."
That, I believe, was what we were all feeling. I had an impulse to run
out into the street, find Trenchard, and make him comfortable. I felt
furiously indignant with the girl. We all looked at her, I suppose,
with indignation, because she regarded us with a fierce, insulting
smile, then turned her back upon us and went to a window.
At that moment Molozov with Trenchard, Nikitin and Semyonov, entered.
I have said earlier in this book that only upon one occasion have I
seen Molozov utterly overcome, a defeated man. This was the occasion
to which I refer. He stood there in the doorway, under a vulgar bevy
of gilt and crimson cupids, his face dull paste in colour, his hands
hanging like lead; he looked at us without seeing us.
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