“Get up.”
He opened his eyes and saw that his father was seated in a chair near his bed, monotonously repeating in a dull voice:
“Get up, get up.”
The sun had just risen, and its light, falling on Ignat’s white linen shirt, had not yet lost its rosy tints.
“It’s early,” said Foma, stretching himself.
“Well, you’ll sleep enough later.”
Lazily muffling himself in the blanket, Foma asked:
“Why do you need me?”
“Get up, dear, will you, please?” exclaimed Ignat, adding, somewhat offended: “It must be necessary, since I am waking you.”
When Foma looked closely at his father’s face, he noticed that it was gray and weary.