The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raissa.
“What a... neck you’ve got!...” And he touched her neck with two fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and shoulders.
“I say, you are...”
“You’d better stay... have some tea.”
“Where are you putting it?” The driver’s voice could be heard outside. “Lay it crossways.”
“You’d better stay.... Hark how the wind howls.”
And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet quite able to shake off the intoxicating sleep of youth and fatigue, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire for the sake of which mail-bags, postal trains... and all things in the world, are forgotten. He glanced at the door in a frightened way, as though he wanted to escape or hide himself, seized Raissa round the waist, and was just bending over the lamp to put out the light, when he heard the tramp of boots in the outer room, and the driver appeared in the doorway. Savely peeped in over his shoulder. The postman dropped his hands quickly and stood still as though irresolute.
“It’s all ready,” said the driver. The postman stood still for a moment, resolutely threw up his head as though waking up completely, and followed the driver out. Raissa was left alone.
“Come, get in and show us the way!” she heard.
One bell sounded languidly, then another, and the jingling notes in a long delicate chain floated away from the hut.