7 x|vEooooo}.))<exS *=?o This and Thats Own And it is already morning! You glance out the window; andthe snow has been scratched by crows little claws; and one crow has pressed itself against another crow at the gutter: it is coldthey ruffle their feathers; the morning isunsightly, incurious; it is tedious! The spindle of days turns around and aroundthe shadow of shadows! My nursery issinglewindowed, blue; a wardrobe; Mamas wardrobe; a very small little table, two chairs, the bed of Henrietta Martynovna; anda little bed: mine; a little trunk and little commode; on the chair a little pitcher and little basin; behind the door on a rackdresses hung, and skirts, and blouses, turned inside out and staring sillily because of the dress-shield; all of this belonged not to me: to Henrietta Martynovna; in a dark corner an etagere with playthings; the icon image above it is ancient; a secretive emerald gleams greenly on the bloody ruby from the crown of the Deogenetrix, in the pit of her arm grabbing hold of the pearl body of the infant. I know that Your Silvergentleness, the snow, will come falling out: it will pile up silversheets in the blotched thaw; butpewter puddles will step through and toward evening they will make a blue patch of ice (there will be a ruddy glow): it will run away in a bustling little stream; it will appear anew: in a greater quantity; everything will turn white into a flaky mass; and the puddles will cool off into icon frames of cold: framed treasures of ice: Es ist kalt. A blowing windchase whistled, ran oninto the lifeless horizon: of savage times; already the shouts of teary piano keys: Mamochka had sat down in the dining room to play; already it gushes into little ears: their peals of laughter are already above everything. The events of life began to flutter away in the eventlessness of sounds; and Mama, bending over the black and slit box, has withdrawn her look into the whitetoothiness of the keys; I see: a bracelet jumps glitteringly from her small little hand; an earring diamondizes in a lilaceous spark; Mamas little head fell to the sounds, marveling with upflown eye-brows (under the little curlicue of hair)at the sounds; she iscarried away by her playing: she does not see, she does not hear; and with a shake of her little head she says: No! No! No! Never, not for anything! How dare you, sounds? But the sounds do dare: will Mamochka dare? Only a lone spark dares this; and it began to run from lilac shades into green: it becameorange Henrietta Martynovna and Ilisten. . . . . . Yes, Henrietta Martynovna, a German, is not at all maliciousbut dumb, dumb: Papa used to say of her: An amazingly, you know, limited nature! She understoodeverything, everything: Do you understand? Ja! Do you understand? Ja, o gewissselbstverstndig! Papa used to debate with scholars; Uncle would roll his little ball of bread, ohing: The devil knows what it is: you can not understand it! Henrietta Martynovna would blurt out and say: Iundershtood! And Papa would fix his snubnosed gaze, throwing the little knife up: You understoodeverything? He catches the little knife: O, ja! And Spinoza, and Kant?and the fingers dance along the tablecloth like peas. Ja, selbstverstndig! Well, thats good! He leaps up, runs into the study with his right, sloping shoulder, rocking his left arm in the air; and he runs out from there with an enormous mathematical book: chuckling at us with his gibberish: Cee over eych two, ef-bee-que, the enth root of ay, minus, plus: delta ey, delta bee, delta cee, delta dee.. You understand? Ja, o gewiss! Repeat it! Ploos, minoos Ja, ja: und so weiter! And Papochka stormily gallops about (and even clicks his heels) he loved, when he was joking, to jump up, clicking about: little busts would fall down because of this (Pushkin had chopped off one sideburn in this way acquiring a new image); and and he spreads his hands like a humorist, leaning over Uncle with a little whisper: You see, you see!.. Isaid it! She wont get far at all: poor thing! Shedeveloped in me palespiritedness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And it simply came about thus (much in life comes about thus: tiddly winks, little crumbs, specks of dust); you breathe out of your little mouth; andsomething fogs up from the little mouth; you draw an angular mug with a shaking little finger on the perspiring spot, and from it little drops of moisture from your breathing flow onto the window sill; the spot flows away, and that rosy house of Starikov on the opposite side appears anew; under it ran a peoplechase along the road of time; I know: murky whirlpools are the precipitation of the moisture of breathing; and here they have breathed on the mirror for me Henrietta Martynovna; someone breathed on the mirror; and losing its reflection, the mirror becamea whitish mist; they breathed again: andHenrietta Martynovna sits with a very pretty little face, white like chalk, with a white-yellow braid,she is somehow this way all over; palelipped, pale-eyelidless, dumbly fastening her gaze at the self before Mamas mirror, which reflected her better; she looks expressionlessly, grinning, at the bloodless, pale gums; and . . . . . The slamming, loudly banging iron leaves of the rumbling roof rolled under the windabove us; and with a hoarse doggy howl the weather rose up the chimney flue; and already Almochka howls back a doggerel to it from the dark anteroom: What do you want? Yes, the snowscript leaves a starlike silversheet, when the windchase runs off into the horizonalong the road of times, when the banging, loudly slamming iron leaves of the rumbling roof roll above us: that isthe wind! . . . . . As soon as Mama withdraws,Henrietta Martynovna quietly goes behind the alcove: to look at herself; she stares, stares at herselfthis way and that; she turns up her irresponsible little nose; andforces herself, squinting her little eyes, to glimpse her own personal profile; I already know; she isa murky creature of the mirror; you touch it with a little fingeryou feel only glass; behind the glass you glimpse: Herr Zett, or Herman; I know: she isnot she; this isZett, about whom she speaks with her girlfriend on the boulevard when we take a walk; they call Herr HermanZett; and this Zett has firmly seated himself in her head. I tug at her sleeve,she turns, fixes her pale greensickness gaze on me; and, winking, she shows me her bloodless gums over a gloss of even, little porcelain teeth; I barely hear: O du: dummes Kind! Andshe buries her head again: anddo not await anything; keeping myself occupied, I wander through the blank, quieted apartment; I sit on my haunches under the hand washstand; I open the little doorsand look; and there stands a bucket; Itouch it: a slimy louse-louse. The faceted, copper handle of the door occupies me; it isturning green; they wipe it off with a brick; it is ground up; stealthily I licked it: the brick is not tasty; I want to spin off the handle; wellcome-on, come-on! A spreadpawed armchair slants like a walnut tree; the lacquer smiles at me; I go up to it and nibble at it with my little teeth; noit is not tasty! Well, come-on: I go to pick out clay from the stove: I pick out a piece, yesinto the little mouth; Ilike it; there is something in the aftertaste! Glinka-modeling clay! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . From everyone there matures ones own which I can not understand: "ten"this: is raising the little fingers of the hands; and Idid not answer; ones own is not mine; and this ones own is a covered object, another persons, each persons: ununderstandable to me; once Mama said: Yes, yes: he has chic And yes: he has that here: thisones own! What? What is it? Like that!she waved her little hand under her little brow; her little eyestoward the tablecloth; that way, somehow all overagitated. And she smiled. It dawned on me: everyone has somewhere concealed ones own, about which it is forbidden to say what it is: you are only permitted to whisper, as Henrietta whispers loudly with her girl friend; her ones own isZett, or Herman; Herr Herman is secretedunder Zett; they call it an object; everyone has this object; Mama has one; Papa hasa different one: the very same kind that other men have; they cover up their own object; but if you undress themthe object exposes itself. . . . . . I know, everyones this that grows, swarming with the precise rustle of a whisper, but the clarification isconcealed in the creases of a clenched mouth under the eyelashes; I distinctly heard: Dunyasha takes walks in the street with a shop-assistant; it is impossible to hold onto this Dunyasha; even I take walks with Henrietta Martynovna; I remember: catching a glimpse of me Mama made eyes: Ah! Be silent! Leave me! The child It is forbidden I understand: Iacted the child: a somersault! Mama, her braid tossed onto her breast, bit it and cast a slanting glance at Auntie: Look at Kotik. Hes somersaulting I hadnt the slightest hint!.. She grabbed me up in her arms, and bashonto the little bed; peals of laughter, she plays, rolls; she spanked me; I started to squeal; we squealed; and after The hint became more than a hint; the gates of understanding distinctly widenedinto the distances beyond the gates; I interpret it: Dunyasha walks the streets with a shop-assistant: this isnot important; Dunyasha goes from streetwalking to the shop-assistant: they do something, and this ismore important. The kitchen maid has ones own: the appearance of Petrovich in the kitchen is permitted; andthey do, something; they have done something; afterwards "Kotiks" appear; how this occurs there,I dont know; but,I do know there appeared from somewhere quite a screamer Yegorka,the previous year; and he set off for the Foundling Hospital; and Dunyasha said that she was very ashamed when Afrosinya spent the night with her own muzhik; yes: that is the way it is: it is indecent to lie with a muzhik; and it is impossible to hold onto Dunyasha for the reason that, after walking the streets with the shop-assistant, she goes to the shop-assistant: to sleep. Isnt the shop-assistant a muzhik? Yes, how should I say, Kotik, perhaps, what,yes And having measured me with an unseeing glance from under his brow, as if a scholarly question had been proposed to him, Papa knocked against the door to the room, in order to whisper something into the pages: after all everything he has there is his ones own. All the more of this ones own (here this here, awful)is in Papochka; I had shaken with terror more than once because of it: thus: once I glimpsed a nephew of Papas; and I liked him; and meanwhilehe was a state criminal, a transgressor, sent off to hot Tashkent with Kistyakovsky: I brought him my constructo cubes, and dumped them onto his lap: Construct a little house! But he waved me off: No, no! We do not know how We demolish everything But I said to him: Construct one! Heconstructed one: such a lovely one! afterwards Papa wiped his chin with a shaking finger and set forth an army of arguments against the nephew, falling heavily with his foot against the floor and slicing his phrases in the air with the paperknife, like a book: The singular unity of Russia Yes, yes, Vyacheslavenka,do you knowwas created over the course of years!.. And youwant to demolish everything! And Papas opinion opened up before us like a slitopen book: Well, here, Vyacheslavenka, you have recognized in part your delusions And he walked about for a long time, ohing about: Its all Antonovichs fault! Yes, yes! Antonovichhe used to stamp his foot at this word, he would stand on this point with eye and noseis inciting you, do you know, Vyacheslavenka, the young people, and he himself isoff to the side, to the side! He ohs: and I know; in his eyes a crushing defeat is being consummated at this, as though they had borne out everything: in place of the full life of thought of the apartmentthere remained a blank place; blankfrom the horror, that Antonovich and his gang would undoubtedly destroy the unity of Russia. Antonovich has long been in my imagination, he has long stunk up all of the surrounding Kievan district with his resolution to steal the convictions: of Volodechko, Gorenko, Silichko, Dimko, Vadimko, Oleshko,exactly like, he stole Vyacheslavenka: yes, undoubtedly, here is this and thats own, because the elder, Antonovich isa professor, like Papa: from Kiev; this isa deception, this iszett, ora mask: under it Antonovich is, as it seems,a soultormenting prankster, a bathhouse splasher, even a gangster, and this is filthier than a robber; a robber simply sets down on the road, tosses a sharp knife, previously whipped against the whetstone by the sharpener, and thrusts it straight into the stomach, andhe withdraws, wheezing, with a very stout sack on his back,to lie low in a burdock grove; this inveterate prankster, modestly donning his professors uniform tail coat, crawls out of the bathhouseas the sheer Antonovich that is, as one who comes into the steam-puffing bathhouse, hangs up his uniform tail coat, exposing the horrors of bare men; and, all soapy and smelling of mould, he throws into his gangs bucket over there Papas nephew, whom he had just stolen,he lets into the gangs bucket boiling water from the bathhouse faucet; the nephewstill an unstable young mandissolves, like soap: yes, yes: understandinga little girl in a white dressdances; and dark nannies come in a muttering swarm: so horribly indistinct, yet so terribly occupying! already the windchase has run off, along the road of times; time itself, a frightened hare, ran, pressing back its ears. . . . . . . . . . . . Torn off from the rest a thundering sign slams with great effort its bent leaf of iron under the little window: everything there is aws, ohs, ahs; andthen everything there is squats to keep silent under the little window until a new runout: I hear sounds from the kitchen: Jang, jang! This, I know, in the kitchen they are pounding almonds with a blunt pestle. And I am deep in thought about all of this worldboth vicious and pernicious! I listen, how headlessly, armlessly, dumb shadows pass into blackening niches; there isan assembly of shadows; there is a multitudinous-multitude of them; the corner compresses them gloomily; in the corner rustling little spheres begin to roll: mice; andquicklegged thoughts from my head run about the rooms; and seethrough handlegs of shadows hung headlessly; a handleg began to run along the parquetsonto the walls; from the wallsto the ceiling; from the shadows a blackhorned-legless suddenly rises, it falls with its multimanus, encircles with its arms, grabs around and will suck everything there is out of me, pouring it into itself; and I will be swept about as an all-together weightless shadow inside of its existence; andit will dance away with me to the enormous distances, beyond the windows, where the banging, loudly slamming iron leaves of the rumbling roof rolled thundering with a whistle: Ai, ai! I runbackwards: to Henrietta Martynovna; and tug at her little sleeve; she turns from the mirror, quietly fixes her pale greensickness gaze on me, quietly shows her bloodless gums andsays: Was willst du? O du, dummes Kind. Anddo not await anything: she will not think up anything. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I remembershe would whiten all over; around it would become pale; and the paleness turned gray, and the grayness darkenedin the corners; thus for hours she would sit before Mamas mirror: suddenly sheleaps up, takes me by the hand: we quickly run away from the mirrorthrough the drawing roominto the nursery; this was the sound of the bell, quite loud: the floorboards squeak; the autowalker starts out; this is Papa going through the corridor from the dark anteroom, coughing, in his uniform tail coat, hanging his big head to the right and staring at everything from under his brow; in his right hand he pressed a very stout portfolio, throwing his left hand in the air and drumming on the walls with trembling fingers; everything silences; only the wind like thunder passes along the roofs; in the little window a sheer silversheet has been sprinkled with snow; the stove in Papas room began howling like a hoarse doggy; from the chimney flues tossed tufts of smoke whip along roofs and windows; I look out the little window: whitest roofs have settled down into darkest niches; nibblers miceplay quieter and quieter Do not await anything! Can this really beMrs. Malinovsky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In gloomy October they reupholstered our armchair in an olive color; yes: and in gloomy October at our place appeared Mrs. Malinovsky! greennosed, greenbrowed: a gray old hack in a black-gray kerchief! she entered bitingly like overflattened ivy: she spoiled the air for Mama with her little question: And why, my dear, has a separate bedroom appeared at your place? Thats a factisnt it: thatsall there is to it! Thats all there is to it she added to each word; I noticed in her her own particular attribute: to appear wherever a process of denunciation was being accomplished no matter what it might be; all her announcements always led up to a denouncement; she announces somethinga gay society dissolves into malicious little fountains of quarrels: and such a little fountain began beating away between Papa and Mama; yes, yes, they say, a cannibal eats people by gnawing at them; they say of her that she gnaws people to death: such a cannibaless! I remember the events of the year and the construct of measured months exactly from that time: yes, from October (I was born in October); that October was very snowy! Winter! All the houses, just like coffins: stern snowdrifts; maliciousness whistles in the chimney flue; a crow runs under the windows with a gnawed bone. Look out: Mrs. Malinovsky will do it to you: Thats all there is to it! And she used to appear: she was horribly respected in the professorial circle; whatever Varvara Semyonovna says, that is the law; and she would say such pleasant things; they used to melt in your mouth like the taste of sweet-pears, if you taste these things; but you will surely scream later: from a stomach ache and a pain in the guts; she would say such pleasant things to husbands about husbands; andsuch tasteless things: to husbands about their wives; the husbands would say: Varvara Semyonovna,yes! A respected person: she has read Solovyov, the historian, twenty-five times from cover to cover. Their wives would answer: A horrible pedant! And once at our place Uncle Yorsh added: She issimply a green old hack! She appeared in the green drawing room (I do not remember her when we had the red drawing room!) She held her own apartment in lacquered sparkle; she had only two dresses: onepalegray; and the othergreen; in the first she would go visiting; and in the secondshe received visitors; she used to say at our place, embracing Mamochka about the waist: Yes, thats all there is to it,my dear Everywhere at everyones placethere is dust Thats all there is to it As soon as I arrive home Thats all there is to it I tear my dress off Thats all there is to it And then, you know, you bring home with you so much dust on the hem from your guests, that afterwards Annushka must sweep up the floor And Nikolai Irasovich also Yes, yes: all of her conversations were broken short by Nikolai Irasovich: Nikolai Irasovich had been her husband who had preferred some twenty years ago to let himself down into the grave, rather than to live by such means At Malinovskys it is so clean, so clean, that the servants no longer sweep the waxed parquets, but lick them; or, squatting, with a finger nail on which they have spit, they playfully scrape up a speck of dust off the floor; it seems to me: they wipe the floors there with the tongue, like everything, that happens in the professorial circle; and by the walls stand boards, upholstered with a gray, cloth material, so that a professor leaning against the wallpaper by chance would not leave a greasy spot there with his head; even the soles of the shagreen slippers of Malinovsky herself are clean, so clean, that they make soup from them, to serve to the guests; and a professor tastes with joy the dish made from this sole; she is full of sweetness; sweets areeverywhere; only in the bed sheets do foul things go on: in the morning she is nauseous from her own personal rumpled bed; and at the gala name day dinner at our place she speaks only about this, not fearing, that during such conversations the dish will be left untouched. You know,yes, my dear; as soon as I arise, then rightout of the room, out; thats all there is to it; I can not, my dear, I can not bear the sight of an unmade bed; soyes, yes, yes: thats all there is to it; or else,I burst out vomiting. And the dish isnot touched: they bring it around to all; and no one touches a piece. And why arent you eating, my dear: thats all there is to it? Ah Varvara Semyonova!.. Yes? Do you suffer from indigestion?.. So: yes And she starts, having told everything she could about herself, to speak aloud Nikolai Irasych. Nikolai Irasych had, yes,my dear We hoped, that with his bed matters stood better . . . . . The arrival of Malinovsky was connected with the green upholstering of the drawing room, with the recognition, that the fairy tale of objects is made up of hairs, felt and dust, with an increasing frequency of quarrels in our place, with interference in our family life of outside ears which distress Mamochka; yes, Malinovsky knew about everyone (and she wasubiquitous); I heard the fact that even the walls have some kind of ears: What kind of? I think: Malinovskys! She hangs her ears about our place (at one time I took dried mushrooms for her ears); and she recognizes that a new lamp has appeared at our place: Thats all, my dear! And I always say: constancy and faithfulness arethe natural decoration of a woman By the way Tell me: what did you buy such a luxurious lamp for, when your old lamp wasnt even spoiled. And why did youthats allmove the drawing room about ? You are inconstant, my dear! Thats all there is to it! I always say: constancy and faithfulness arethe natural, thats all there is to it My Nikolai Irasovich! Yes! Thats all there is to it! He said the same thing Yes! Mama afterwardssobs; and the hanging sag of the shades becomes green at our place, dispersing the light of day; and we are becoming inconsolably green. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Henrietta Martynovna had already quietly placed the smooth little hat with the blue veil on her head; she has on her artificial beauty spots; we are going to the Arbat to take a walk: into the peoplechases. Flights of wide flying spans were opened by a survey of the Arbat: a silverplumed light snow is flying; and it lies down fluffily; a crow ruffles itself up from the cornice: like a little sphere; sleighs slice the snow with their runners down to the stones; a shinynosed, malicious gloom in hoods quickened into a run; and gymnasiasts run in blue peak-caps, decorated with a butterfly; a silvery hanging drop sprinkles in the face; I amwhitish; weshake ourselves off; we splash the wet snowyslush against the ground; there at the confectioners Felsh, in the little window are thrown about candies in orange, smooth paper wrappers; and thenPectoral: little cough caramelsI wish I would cough! Another little window; I do not like it: a guttapercha little boy stands there, stood up against a little ball; a little ball with such a little endno, I do not like it! Once we came here: Henrietta Martynovna purchased dress-shields here; further, in a little window, coffee pots, copper jars,uninteresting; Monsieur Retter is more interesting: he sits behind the counter, so blackbrowed, so blackbearded: later I used to see him grayhaired: in the end, I recently stood before a cross on a grave where he had taken rest from his labors! so blackbrowed, so blackbearded, not like the men running here in the frost: they arewhitemen; they arebluelips; and there even passed a blackpussa Negro! Here is the cobbler Greenblatt, where they recognize me, where they indulge me; here is Blank and Arbat Square (at Blanks I admired a stuffed wolf and the cages with the motley birds; ah, I do not like the corner coffee house and the sign: Karl Mor). Ai, ai, ai! A flaky mass poured down: downy snow flakes fly down; a passing gelding has turned all gray; an overpowdered poodle ran by, knocked into a silly curbstone; and suddenly he howled as if he had met an acquaintance: he sniffs greedily the calling card of a doggyvaliantly he lifts a hairy leg against the silly curbstone: Papa used to tell me: doggies write postcards to doggies on the curbstone; and a doggy, having read with his nose the letters of the doggy,valiantly lifts a hairy leg against the silly curbstone! Here children are running: little whiteheads! The little faces are red, like cranberries; one downy whitehead ran up importantly to me: to play a bit; himI know: A capricious child! We turn onto Maly Kislovsky alley; I fear indistinctions; and here is an indistinction this and thats own: two griffons, winged: andI fear the two winged griffons, raising two paws over the busy entrance; I fear the two yellow, grinning lions on the gates of some house: here they will jump off: just like now two griffins, raising two paws over the busy entrancesit: still. And two grinning stone lions sit on the gates of the same house: the same house! Recently I was walking along Nikitsky street (the Soviet "Nikitsky!"): a female motorcyclist was gunning the gas; a member of the All Russian Central Executive Committee in a bigeared, snowy hat, was borne by in a black auto:he glanced with a firm face at me; I turned onto Maly Kislovsky; and I glimpsed that which I had feared back thenthirty-five years ago: I glimpsed griffons, winged, two paws raised over the busy entrance, two yellow, grinning lions on the gatesof that very same house. I was struck by the ones own expression of the griffons, a bloody sort of grin of the yellow lions; this again was ones own; and along with this ones own, so horrible; I know: the ones own of Afrosinya, Petrovich, Mamochka is not as horrible, as the ones own expression of the lions: ununderstandable, monstrous! This ones own is so monstrous only in ...Papochka: Yes, Chebyshev, the mathematician: his ones own is the same: i.e. indistinction, delirium; it is impossible to utter Chebyshev: it is still possible to talk about Antonovich: Chebyshev isforbidden; say AntonovichI immediately glimpse the veins filling on Papas reddening brow; just say: Chebyshev! anda deathly paleness appears on the brow. If you knock Papa into Chebyshev,a nasty scene will occur: instantly theyll become all shaggy; and without a scream both will come down on one another, consummating with heavy breathing something base; andhaving previously snapped the door loudly shut; they glimpse only one another, they grab at each otherby the arms, andrun into the study; and Mama pours out tears: Let me in! In answer there is onlya deaf row: of Chebyshev on top of Papa, or Papa on top of him; andthey send for the firemen: to break down the doors; they break down the doors; they enter: amid the blood a bloody Chebyshev tremblessenseless; Papa is no longer; or there isno Chebyshev, but Papa, tufted, worn out, covered in blood, is digging in the red beef! just like some sort of a dog! They once spoke of Chebyshev, having forgotten about Papa, who hanging his head down to the right side and waving his hand with the paperknife (the left one)went out on tiptoe: and everyone forgot about him; soon I ran off to the study; and there two windows of the study, just like two enormous crimson eyes (it was evening), widened, quietly crimsoning the door jambs, the hand washstands, the glasspanes; in all of this red Papa was pacing back and forth, oh, no, he was not pacing back and forth: he was running on tiptoes, quietly shouting to himself; and with a hand pressed into a firm fist in sharp turnsbam-bam-bam-bam-bamhe kept pounding very quickly in the air! He fell with his very big head onto his arms: as if the head had been seated on the shoulders by two men with great force who had first strained themselves: it satsomehow to the side. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . We turned from the Arbat onto Maly Kislovskylook; peoplelessness; I know: griffins await with raised paw; and they are stretched out for me; but I fear and I cry; I ask to turn around; we turned aroundthe peoplelessness ended; peoplechases again went by; the golden boot above Greenblatts rocks in the air; everything darkened; and it seems to me to be lonely and severe; beyond the snowy mists everything has tensed up extraordinarily: it horrifies; and here a spark occupies a spotso prophetic; it malices from a nearby house; and everything Chebyshevizes, griffonizes, grimaces and lionizes; everything howls; all the windowsblacken; they take a seat under the window; and the night fixed its blackhorned gaze: in the windows: and in the windowseyelessness! . . . . .  The Christened Chinaman This and Thats Own  vx.,-,to his gangs bucket over thereirsmpled bed; and at the gala name only about this, not fearing, . . . . . . . . . . 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