"He must be drunk," observed Makarov.
"No, he's always like that," was on the tip of Yevsey's tongue. He fidgetted in his chair.
Melnikov pushed himself through the crowd like a black stone, and was soon lost in its gaily colored stream.
"Did you notice how he walked?" Olga asked Klimkov.
Yevsey nodded his head.
"Of course he's a mean man, but he must be unhappy and lonely."
Yevsey raised his head, and looked at her attentively, with expectation.
"Do you know I think that for a weak man loneliness is the most horrible thing. It can drive him to anything."
"Yes," said Klimkov in a whisper, comprehending something. He looked into the girl's face gratefully, and repeated in a louder tone, "Yes."
"I knew him four years ago," Makarov recounted. Makarov's face seemed suddenly to have lengthened and dried up. His bones became visible, his eyes opened and darkened and looked firmly into the distance. "He delivered over one student, who gave us books to read, and a workingman, Tikhonov. The student was exiled, Tikhonov stayed in prison about a year, then died of typhus."