this terror, manifesting itself after almost half a century.
Alexey Sergeitch died in his eighty-eighth year—in the year 1848, which apparently disturbed even him. His death, too, was rather strange. He had felt well the same morning, though by that time he never left his easy-chair. And all of a sudden he called his wife: 'Malania, my dear, come here.' 'What is it, Alexis?' 'It's time for me to die, my dear, that's what it is.' 'Mercy on you, Alexey Sergeitch! What for?' 'Because, first of all, one must know when to take leave; and, besides, I was looking the other day at my feet. . . Look at my feet . . . they are not mine . . . say what you like . . . look at my hands, look at my stomach . . . that stomach's not mine—so really I'm using up another man's life. Send for the priest; and meanwhile, put me to bed—from which I shall not get up again.' Malania Pavlovna was terribly upset; however, she put the old man to bed and sent for the priest. Alexey Sergeitch confessed, took the sacrament, said good-bye to his household, and fell asleep. Malania Pavlovna was sitting by his bedside. 'Alexis!' she cried suddenly, 'don't frighten me, don't shut your eyes! Are you in pain?' The old man looked at his wife: 'No, no pain . . . but it's difficult . . . difficult to breathe.' Then after a brief silence: 'Malania,' he said, 'so life
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