He stood near his room, leaning against the wall, and seemed to
see, feel, and hear how near him and below him were sleeping
several score of people; sleeping with the last, fast morning
sleep, with open mouths, with measured deep breathing, with a
wilted pallor on their faces, glistening from sleep; and through
his head flashed the thought, remote yet familiar since childhood,
of how horrible sleeping people are--far more horrible than dead
people. Then he remembered about Liubka. His subterranean,
submerged, mysterious "I" rapidly, rapidly whispered that he ought
to drop into the room, and see if the girl were all right, as well
as make certain dispositions about tea in the morning; but he made
believe to himself that he was not at all even thinking of this,
and walked out into the street.
He walked, looking closely at everything that met his eyes, with
an idle and exact curiosity new to him; and every feature was
drawn for him in relief to such a degree that it seemed to him as
though he were feeling it with his fingers... There a peasant
woman passed by.
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