He was well fed in the prison, and somehow he began to grow stout rapidly and to assume airs.
"Now she would have liked me," he thought of his master's wife.

"Now I am stout--not worse-looking than the master." But he longed for a drink of vodka, to drink and to take a ride on horseback, to ride fast, madly.
When the terrorists were arrested the news of it reached the prison.
And in answer to Yanson's usual question, the warden said eagerly and unexpectedly: "It won't be long now!" He looked at Yanson calmly with an air of importance and repeated: "It won't be long now.

I suppose in about a week." Yanson turned pale, and as though falling asleep, so turbid was the look in his glassy eyes, asked: "Are you joking ?" "First you could not wait, and now you think I am joking.

We are not allowed to joke here.

You like to joke, but we are not allowed to," said the warden with dignity as he went away.
Toward evening of that day Yanson had already grown thinner.