"You see, she had money, and, but for her restlessness, might have lived a comfortable life enough. As it was, her restlessness—"
"Time for exercise is up!" shouts the warder.
"Who are you?" adds Konev hastily. "Somehow I seem to remember your face; but I cannot place it."
Yet so stung am I with what I have heard that I move away in silence: save that just as I reach the top of the steps I turn to cry:
"Goodbye, mate, and give her my greeting."
"What are you bawling for?" blusters the warder....
The corridor is dim, and filled with an oppressive odour. The warder swings his keys with a dry, thin clash, and I, to dull the pain in my heart, strive to imitate him. But the attempt proves futile; and as the warder opens the door of my cell he says severely:
"In with you, ten-years man!"
Entering, I move towards the window. Between some grey spikes on a wall I can just discern the boisterous current of the Kura, with sakli [warehouses] and houses glued to the opposite bank, and the figures of some workmen on the roof of a tanning shed. Below, with his cap pushed to the back of his head, a sentry is pacing backwards and forwards.
Wearily my mind recalls the many scores of Russian folk whom it has seen perish to no purpose. And as it does so it feels crushed, as in a vice, beneath the burden of great and inexorable sorrow with which all life is dowered.