Vasily met the old woman, as he was pacing up and down the room, trembling with cold, although it was warm, even hot.

And the conversation was brief, painful.
"It wasn't worth coming, mother.

You'll only torture yourself and me." "Why did you do it, Vasya?
Why did you do it?
Oh, Lord!" The old woman burst out weeping, wiping her face with the ends of her black, woolen kerchief.

And with the habit which he and his brothers had always had of crying at their mother, who did not understand anything, he stopped, and, shuddering as with cold, spoke angrily: "There! You see! I knew it! You understand nothing, mother! Nothing!" "Well--well--all right! Do you feel--cold ?" "Cold!" Vasily answered bluntly, and again began to pace the room, looking at his mother askance, as if annoyed.
"Perhaps you have caught cold ?" "Oh, mother what is a cold, when--" and he waved his hand helplessly.
The old woman was about to say: "And your father ordered wheat cakes beginning with Monday," but she was frightened, and said: "I told him: 'It is your son, you should go, give him your blessing.' No, the old beast persisted--" "Let him go to the devil! What sort of father has he been to me?
He has been a scoundrel all his life, and remains a scoundrel!" "Vasenka! Do you speak of your father like this ?" said the old woman reproachfully, straightening herself.
"About my father!" "About your own father ?" "He is no father to me!" It was strange and absurd.

Before him was the thought of death, while here something small, empty and trivial arose, and his words cracked like the shells of nuts under foot.