Farther on a crying woman's voice leaped frightened from the window to the street:
"Consider! Are you a single man, are you? They are bachelors and don't care!"
When they passed the house of Zosimov, the man without legs, who received a monthly allowance from the factory because of his mutilation, he stuck his head through the window and cried out:
"Pavel, you scoundrel, they'll wring your head off for your doings, you'll see!"
The mother trembled and stopped. The exclamation aroused in her a sharp sensation of anger. She looked up at the thick, bloated face of the cripple, and he hid himself, cursing. Then she quickened her pace, overtook her son, and tried not to fall behind again. He and Andrey seemed not to notice anything, not to hear the outcries that pursued them. They moved calmly, without haste, and talked loudly about commonplaces. They were stopped by Mironov, a modest, elderly man, respected by everybody for his clean, sober life.
"Not working either, Daniïl Ivanovich?" Pavel asked.
"My wife is going to be confined. Well, and such an exciting day, too," Mironov responded, staring fixedly at the comrades. He said to them in an undertone:
"Boys, I hear you're going to make an awful row—smash the superintendent's windows."
"Why, are we drunk?" exclaimed Pavel.
"We are simply going to march along the streets with flags, and sing songs," said the Little Russian. "You'll have a chance to hear our songs. They're our confession of faith."