Мертвые души (Том первый) (Russian Edition)

Everyone sees what a hard time he is having, and they tell him, “We can stop, if you’re tired. You need to rest up.” Rest up? No, he’s not tired in the least, they’ll finish the rubber. Everyone is gloomy and silent. Ivan Ilych feels that he has cast upon them a gloom he cannot get to dissipate. They eat supper and go their separate ways, and Ivan

Why bother telling her? She won’t understand, he thought. And she really didn’t understand. She lit his candle with hers and ran out to see another guest off. When she came back, he was lying on his back, staring up. “What’s the matter with you? Are you feeling worse?” “Yes.” She shook her head and took a seat. “You know, Jean, I’m thinking that ma

“Why in such haste?” asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously. “Everyone has his plans,” Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.

“In his last days he suffered terribly.” “Did he?” Pyotr Ivanovich asked. “Oh, it was awful! For the last few hours—not minutes, mind you, but hours—he cried out constantly. For days he shouted in anguish. It was intolerable. I do not even understand how I withstood it. You could hear him three doors down. Oh, what I’ve been through!”