One sanitar, asleep, had leaned, still standing, over a chair, and his shadow with his heavy hanging head high above the candle against the wall.
Nikitin, seeming gigantic in the failing candlelight, stood back against the window.

He did not keep, as did Semyonov, perfect neatness.

A night of work left him with his hair on end, his black beard rough and disordered; his shirtsleeves were turned up, his arms stained with blood, and in his white apron he looked like some kingly butcher.

I was tired, the cold headache was upon me.

I wished that I could go, but I knew that both he and I must stay until eight o'clock.
While there was work to do nothing mattered, but now in the silence the whole world seemed as empty and foul as a drained and stinking tub.
Nikitin looked at me.
"You're tired," he said.
"No, I'm not tired," I answered.