And she walked straight up to us, walked as simply as if we were not standing there before her at all, as if we were not obstructing her way. And for that very reason not one of us was actually standing in her way when she came up to us.
And proceeding out of our midst and, without so much as turning towards us, loudly, and with indescribable contempt, she kept on saying:
"Ugh! you wretches! you vermin!"
And—off she went.
We remained standing in the yard, in the midst of the mud, beneath the pouring rain and the grey, sunless sky.
Presently we returned in silence to our grey, stony dungeon. As before, the sun never once looked through our window, and—there was no Tanya now.
[III.—ONE AUTUMN NIGHT.]
Once in the autumn I happened to be in a very unpleasant and inconvenient position. In the town where I had just arrived and where I knew not a soul, I found myself without a farthing in my pocket and without a night's lodging.
Having sold during the first few days every part of my costume, without which it was still possible to go about, I passed from the town into the quarter called "Yste,"[1] where were the steamship wharves—a quarter which during the navigation season fermented with boisterous laborious life, but now was silent and deserted, and indeed we were in the last days of October.