"Love," muttered Kapendiukhin, "what sort of love?"
"Such a handsome young man as you are must know all about love," answered the woman simply.
The workshop shook with laughter, and Sitanov growled to Kapendiukhin:
"A fool, if no worse, she is! People only love that way through a great passion, as every one knows."
He was pale with the wine he had drunk; drops of sweat stood on his temples like pearls; his intelligent eyes burned alarmingly.
But old Golovev, twitching his monstrous nose, wiped the tears from his eyes with his fingers, and asked:
"How many children did you have?"
"Only one."
Over the table hung a lamp; over the stove, another. They gave a feeble light; thick shadows gathered in the corners of the workshop, from which looked half-painted headless figures. The dull, gray patches in place of hands and heads look weird and large, and, as usual, it seemed to me that the bodies of the saints had secretly disappeared from the painted garments. The glass balls, raised right up to the ceiling, hung there on hooks in a cloud of smoke, and gleamed with a blue light.
Jikharev went restlessly round the table, pressing hospitality on every one. His broad, bald skull inclined first to one and then to another, his thin fingers always were on the move. He was very thin, and his nose, which was like that of a bird of prey, seemed to have grown sharper; when he stood sideways to the light, the shadow of his nose lay on his cheek.