"No, they're different. There's a newspaper here, too."
"Oh!"
The three men quickly walked into the shack.
"The peasant is on fire," said the mother in a low voice, looking after Rybin thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered Sofya. "I've never seen such a face as his—such a martyrlike face. Let's go inside, too. I want to look at them."
When the women reached the door they found the men already engrossed in the newspapers. Ignaty was sitting on the board, the newspaper spread on his knees, and his fingers run through his hair. He raised his head, gave the women a rapid glance, and bent over his paper again. Rybin was standing to let the ray of sun that penetrated a chink in the roof fall on his paper. He moved his lips as he read. Ignaty read kneeling, with his breast against the edge of the board.
Sofya felt the eagerness of the men for the word of truth. Her face brightened with a joyful smile. Walking carefully over to a corner, she sat down next to the mother, her arm on the mother's shoulder, and gazed about silently.
"Uncle Mikhaïl, they're rough on us peasants," muttered Yakob without turning.
Rybin looked around at him, and answered with a smile:
"For love of us. He who loves does not insult, no matter what he says."