"Have you relatives?"
"No. I have no one."
The spy leaned over, though without saying anything. His eyes were half shut. As he drew his breath through his nose, the thin hair of his mustache quivered. The thick sounds of a bell floated in the air, soft and warm, and the pensive song of copper crept mournfully over the roofs of the houses without rising under the heavy cloud that covered the city with a solid dark canopy.
"To-morrow is Sunday," said Maklakov in a low tone. "Do you go to church?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Just so. It's close there."
"I do. I love the morning service. The choristers sing, and the sun looks through the windows. That is always good."
Maklakov's simple words emboldened Yevsey. He felt a desire to speak of himself.
"It is nice to sing," he began. "When I was a little boy I sang in the church in our village. When I sang I didn't know where I was. It was just the same as if I didn't exist."