He blinked his white eyelashes, stupidly, without curiosity; examined the sombre, unfamiliar courtroom, and picked his nose with his hard, shriveled, unbending finger.

Only those who had seen him on Sundays at church would have known that he had made an attempt to adorn himself.

He wore on his neck a knitted, muddy-red shawl, and in places had dampened the hair of his head.

Where the hair was wet it lay dark and smooth, while on the other side it stuck up in light and sparse tufts, like straws upon a hail-beaten, wasted meadow.
When the sentence was pronounced--death by hanging--Yanson suddenly became agitated.

He reddened deeply and began to tie and untie the shawl about his neck as though it were choking him.