His mouth was set severely, his legs apart,
his hands at his sides.
"A terrible misfortune," I heard the stout doctor say.
Semyonov looked at him gravely.
"Thank you very much for your kindness," he said courteously. Then, by
a common instinct, without any spoken word between us, we all went
from the room, leaving Semyonov alone there.
I remember very little of our return to Mittoevo. We borrowed a cart
upon which we laid the body. I sat in the trap with Semyonov. I was, I
remember, afraid lest he should suddenly go off his head. It seemed
quite a possible thing then, he was so quiet, so motionless, scarcely
breathing. I concentrated all my thought upon this. I had my hand upon
his arm and I remember that it relieved me in some way to feel it so
thick and strong beneath his sleeve. He did not look at me once.
I do not know what my thoughts were, a confused incoherent medley of
nonsense. I did not think of Marie Ivanovna at all. I repeated again
and again to myself, in the silly, insane way that one does under the
shock of some trouble, the words of the poem that I had read that
afternoon:
_Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam
(Je crois du moins qu'il y passa) en revenant
De l'ile ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte.
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