on! . . .' The earth seem reeling under Nezhdanov's feet. His own voice sounded strange to him, as if it came from a long way off.. . . Was it death, or what?
And all of a sudden . . . a sense of the fresh air on his face, and no more hubbub, no red faces, no stench of spirits, sheepskins, pitch and leather.. . . And again he was sitting in the cart with Pavel, at first struggling and shouting, 'Stop! Where are you off to? I'd not time to tell them anything, I must explain . . .' then adding, 'And you yourself, you sly devil, what are your views?' To which Pavel replied, 'It would be nice if there were no gentry, and the land was all ours—what could be better? but there's been no order to that effect so far'; while he stealthily turned his horse's head, and suddenly lashing him on the back with the reins, set off at full trot away from the din and clamour . . . to the factory.. . .
Nezhdanov dozed and was jolted about, but the wind blew sweetly in his face, and kept back gloomy thoughts.
Only he was vexed that he had not been allowed to explain himself fully.. . . And again the wind soothed his heated face.
And then the momentary vision of Marianna, a momentary burning sense of disgrace, and sleep, heavy, deathlike sleep.. . .
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