I judged that he was about thirty. His small, round, gray eyes had a
sleepy expression, and at the same time gazed calmly out from under the
dirty white lambskin of his cap, which hung down over his face. His
thick, irregular nose, standing out between his sunken cheeks, gave
evidence of emaciation that was the result of illness, and not natural.
His restless lips, barely covered by a sparse, soft, whitish moustache,
were constantly changing their shape as though they were trying to
assume now one expression, now another. But all these expressions seemed
to be endless, and his face retained one predominating expression of
timidity and fright. Around his thin neck, where the veins stood out,
was tied a green woollen scarf tucked into his jacket, his fur jacket,
or polushubok, was worn bare, short, and had dog-fur sewed on the collar
and on the false pockets. The trousers were checkered, of ash-gray
color, and his sapogi had short, unblacked military bootlegs.
"I beg of you, do not disturb yourself," said I when he for the second
time, timidly glancing at me, had taken off his cap.
He bowed to me with an expression of gratitude, replaced his hat, and,
drawing from his pocket a dirty chintz tobacco-pouch with lacings, began
to roll a cigarette.
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