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58
The Tales of Chekhov
platforms, the seats were all wet and cold. Until the train came in the student stood at the buffet drinking tea while the postman, with his hands thrust up his sleeves and the same look of anger still on his face, paced up and down the platform in solitude, staring at the ground under his feet.
With whom was he angry? Was it with people, with poverty, with the autmn nights?
