146
THE FRIEND
mir Mikhailovich just as it had come to him. He had disappointed the hopes that had been built on him, and all were angry at this disappointment, and avenged themselves on him by exasperating remarks and cold jeers. And then they had shut down on him dead, heavy oblivion, like the lid of a coffin.
The young woman had dropped him. She too considered herself taken in.
The oppressive fume-laden nights, and the pitilessly vengeful sun-lit days, went by: and frequently, more frequently than formerly, the Aunt's steps resounded through the empty flat, while he lay on his bed looking at the well-known stain on the ceiling, and whispered:
"My friend, my friend, my only friend!"
And his trembling hand fell feebly on an empty place.
