She pressed the valise to herself trembling. "And to go away with it? Where? To run?"
These thoughts seemed to her those of a stranger, somebody from the outside, who was pushing them on her by main force. They burned her, and their burns chopped her brain painfully, lashed her heart like fiery whipcords. They were an insult to the mother; they seemed to be driving her away from her own self, from Pavel, and everything which had grown to her heart. She felt that a stubborn, hostile force oppressed her, squeezed her shoulder and breast, lowered her stature, plunging her into a fatal fear. The veins on her temples began to pulsate vigorously, and the roots of her hair grew warm.
Then with one great and sharp effort of her heart, which seemed to shake her entire being, she quenched all these cunning, petty, feeble little fires, saying sternly to herself: "Enough!"
She at once began to feel better, and she grew strengthened altogether, adding: "Don't disgrace your son. Nobody's afraid."
Several seconds of wavering seemed to have the effect of joining everything in her; her heart began to beat calmly.
"What's going to happen now? How will they go about it with me?" she thought, her senses strung to a keener observation.
The spy called a station guard, and whispered something to him, directing his look toward her. The guard glanced at him and moved back. Another guard came, listened, grinned, and lowered his brows. He was an old man, coarse-built, gray, unshaven. He nodded his head to the spy, and walked up to the bench where the mother sat. The spy quickly disappeared.
The old man strode leisurely toward the mother, intently thrusting his angry eyes into the mother's face. She sat farther back on the bench, trembling. "If they only don't beat me, if they only don't beat me!"
He stopped at her side; she raised her eyes to his face.
"What are you looking at?" he asked in a moderated voice.