His rosy-cheeked typical Russian face, with its large white brow, rather thick nose, and wide straight lips seemed breathing with the wild health of the steppes, with vigorous primaeval energy.

He was splendidly well-built, and his fair curly hair stood up on his head like a boy's.
It was only in his blue eyes, with their overhanging brows and somewhat fixed look, that one could trace an expression, not exactly of melancholy, nor exactly of weariness, and his voice had almost too measured a cadence.
Panshin meanwhile continued to keep up the conversation.

He turned it upon the profits of sugar-boiling, on which he had lately read two French pamphlets, and with modest composure undertook to expound their contents, without mentioning, however, a single word about the source of his information.
"Good God, it is Fedya!" came through the half-opened door the voice of Marfa Timofyevna in the next room.

"Fedya himself!" and the old woman ran hurriedly into the room.

Lavretsky had not time to get up from his seat before she had him in her arms.