On the following day (yesterday
it had been impossible on account of a holiday and the lateness),
having gotten up very early and recollecting that to-day he had to
take care of Liubka's passport, he felt just as bad as when in
former times, as a high-school boy, he went to an examination,
knowing that he would surely fall through. His head ached, while
his arms and legs somehow seemed another's; in addition, a
drizzling and seemingly dirty rain had been falling on the street
since morning. "Always, now, when there's some unpleasantness in
store, there is inevitably a rain falling," reflected Lichonin,
dressing slowly.
It was not especially far from his street to the Yamskaya, not
more than two-thirds of a mile. In general, he was not
infrequently in those parts, but he had never had occasion to go
there in the daytime; and on the way it seemed to him all the time
that every one he met, every cabby and policeman, was looking at
him with curiosity, with reproach, or with disdain, as though
surmising the destination of his journey. As always on a nasty and
muggy morning, all the faces that met his eyes seemed pale, ugly,
with monstrously underlined defects.
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