you a father and mother?"
"Yes . . . no . . . I have."
"Where are they?"
"There . . . in Riga."
"What are they?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Nothing? Why, what class are they?"
"Tradespeople."
"Have you always lived with them?"
"Yes."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty." "Why did you leave them?"
"Oh, for no reason."
That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad."
We were silent.
God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was hurrying to the office.
"I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it," I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but as it were by accident.
"A coffin?"
"Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar."
"From a cellar?"
"Not from a cellar, but a basement. Oh, you know . . . down below . . . from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round . . . Egg-shells, litter . . . a stench. It was loathsome."
Silence.
"A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.
"Nasty, in what way?"
"The
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