His hands were always dry and hot, but his heart at times would suddenly grow cold, as if a cake of unmelting ice had been placed upon his chest, sending a slight, dry shiver through his whole body.

At such times, Tsiganok, always dark in complexion, would turn black, assuming the shade of bluish cast-iron.

And he acquired a curious habit; as though he had eaten too much of something sickeningly sweet, he kept licking his lips, smacking them, and would spit on the floor, hissingly, through his teeth.

When he spoke, he did not finish his words, so rapidly did his thoughts run that his tongue was unable to compass them.
One day the chief warden, accompanied by a soldier, entered his cell.

He looked askance at the floor and said gruffly: "Look! How dirty he has made it!" Tsiganok retorted quickly: "You've made the whole world dirty, you fat-face, and yet I haven't said anything to you.