Often, rising wildly from his
seat, he gesticulates violently, fixes his eyes on something as though
desirous of catching it: his lips move as though desirous of uttering
some long-forgotten word--and remain speechless. Fury takes possession
of him: he gnaws and bites his hands like a man half crazy, and in his
vexation tears out his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he
falls into forgetfulness, as it were, and again begins to recall, and is
again seized with fury and fresh tortures. . . . What visitation of God is
this?
Pidorka was neither dead nor alive. At first it was horrible to her to
remain alone in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman grew
accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognize the Pidorka
of former days. No blush, no smile: she was thin and worn with grief,
and had wept her bright eyes away. Once, some one who evidently took
pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear's
ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease
in the world. She determined to try this last remedy: word by word she
persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was St. John's Eve, as it
chanced. Petro lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the new-
comer.
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