I felt as though I could not face the horrible place, then summoning my control I boldly challenged it, surveying its long broken windows, its high doorway, its sunny, insulting garden.

We were met by the stout doctor, whom I had seen before.

As he is of some importance in the events that followed I will mention his name--Konstantine Feodorovitch Krylov.

He was large and stout, a true Russian type, with a merry laughing face.

He had the true Russian spirit of unconquerable irrational merriment.