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More Tales from Tolstoi his face with his pocket-handkerchief, and withdrew from the carriage.

"No, I will go," said the invalid, raising her eyes to heaven, and she folded her arms and began to mutter incoherently: "Why is it so, why is it so? My God, my God!" she said, and the tears flowed still more violently.

She prayed long and fervently, but her bosom remained just as sick and sore; in the sky, in the fields, on the road, everything remained just as grey and dull; and that autumn mist neither denser, nor thinner, lay just as before over the mud of the road and over the roofs of the cottages, and over the carriages and the sheepskins of the post-drivers who, conversing together with strong and merry voices, were oiling the wheels of the vehicles and putting fresh horses to.

The carriage was ready, but the driver still delayed—he had entered the common room of the posting-station. It was hot, stuffy, dark, and oppressive in the post-station room, which smelt of people, baked bread, cabbage, and sheepskins. A good many post-drivers were in the living-room, the cook was busy about the stove, and on the -stove in sheepskins lay a sick man.

"Uncle Khveder, Uncle Khveder, I say," cried a (young fellow, a post-driver in a sheepskin pelisse and with his whip in his belt, entering the room and turning towards the sick man.

"What are you skulking about for, Fed'ka, eh?"