THE SEALED ANGEL
CHAPTER I
It was Christmas time. The weather had become very severe, a cruel snowstorm was raging, one of those which make winter in the Steppes famous; a number of people had been driven by it to take refuge in the lonely posthouse standing by itself in the midst of the level, limitless plain. Here were gathered together a crowd of gentlefolk, merchants, and peasants. It was quite impossible to pay attention to differences of rank and office in such a night shelter: wherever you turned you jostled against people; some were drying themselves, others warming themselves, others again were seeking even the smallest corner where they could take refuge. In the dark, low cottage overflowing with travellers the air was foul and a thick steam rose from the wet clothes; there seemed to be hardly a vacant place, either on the floor or on the stove or on the benches, and even on the
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