The black kerchief had slipped down, baring upon the back of her head a bald spot amid her muddy-gray hair; and then somehow it seemed to her that she was feasting at a wedding, that her son was getting married, and she had been drinking wine and had become intoxicated.
"I can't! My God! I can't!" she cried, as though declining something.
Swaying her head, she crawled over the wet, frozen crust, and all the time it seemed to her that they were pouring out more wine for her, more wine! And her heart had already begun to pain her from her intoxicated laughter, from the rejoicing, from the wild dancing--and they kept on pouring more wine for her--pouring more wine!.