As he spoke he got ready to go to work. He walked from one corner of the room to the other. Everything about him shook. The chairs fell and the floor bent under him as he walked. He was funny, yet pleasant to look upon.
"What kind of people are they?" I thought. Then I said aloud: "Can I remain with you three days?"
"Go ahead," he said; "three months if you wish. You are a strange fellow. You are not in our way, thank God."
Then he scratched his head and smiled apologetically.
"The word God always comes to my mouth. It is from habit."
Again the factory whistle blew, and the uncle went away. I went to sleep in the shed. Mikhail lay there. He was frowning sternly, and his hands were on his breast, his face was flushed. He was beardless and without mustache, his cheekbones were high; in fact, he was all bones.
"What kind of people are they?"
And with this thought I fell asleep.