When the police had led Pavel away, the mother sat down on the bench, and closing her eyes began to weep quietly.

She leaned her back against the wall, as her husband used to do, her head thrown backward.
Bound up in her grief and the injured sense of her impotence, she cried long, gently, and monotonously, pouring out all the pain of her wounded heart in her sobs.

And before her, like an irremovable stain, hung that yellow face with the scant mustache, and the squinting eyes staring at her with malicious pleasure.

Resentment and bitterness were winding themselves about her breast like black threads on a spool; resentment and bitterness toward those who tear a son away from his mother because he is seeking truth.
It was cold; the rain pattered against the window panes; something seemed to be creeping along the walls.

She thought she heard, walking watchfully around the house, gray, heavy figures, with broad, red faces, without eyes, and with long arms.