Well, good-by! Behave yourselves!" The mother laughed softly; she was pleased to hear that such things were said of her.

Pavel smilingly turned to her: "Oh, you'll get into prison, mother!" "I don't mind," she murmured.
The sun rose higher, pouring warmth into the bracing freshness of the spring day.

The clouds floated more slowly, their shadows grew thinner and more transparent, and crawled gently over the streets and roofs.
The bright sunlight seemed to clean the village, to wipe the dust and dirt from the walls and the tedium from the faces.

Everything assumed a more cheerful aspect; the voices sounded louder, drowning the far-off rumble and heavings of the factory machines.
Again, from all sides, from the windows and the yards, different words and voices, now uneasy and malicious, now thoughtful and gay, found their way to the mother's ears.

But this time she felt a desire to retort, to thank, to explain, to participate in the strangely variegated life of the day.
Off a corner of the main thoroughfare, in a narrow by-street, a crowd of about a hundred people had gathered, and from its depths resounded Vyesovshchikov's voice: "They squeeze our blood like juice from huckleberries." His words fell like hammer blows on the people.
"That's true!" the resonant cry rang out simultaneously from a number of throats.
"The boy is doing his best," said the Little Russian.