He approached the table, examined it as if to satisfy himself of its solidity, and finally sat down and, covering his mouth with his hand, yawned.

His head was perfectly round and close-cropped, his face shaven except for a thin mustache, the ends of which pointed downward.
After carefully scrutinizing the room with his large, gray, protuberant eyes, he crossed his legs, and, leaning his head over the table, inquired: "Is this your own house, or do you rent it ?" The mother, sitting opposite him, answered: "We rent it." "Not a very fine house," he remarked.
"Pasha will soon be here; wait," said the mother quietly.
"Why, yes, I am waiting," said the man.
His calmness, his deep, sympathetic voice, and the candor and simplicity of his face encouraged the mother.

He looked at her openly and kindly, and a merry sparkle played in the depths of his transparent eyes.

In the entire angular, stooping figure, with its thin legs, there was something comical, yet winning.

He was dressed in a blue shirt, and dark, loose trousers thrust into his boots.