More than once he awaked his ten- or eleven-year-old friend at night, simply to pour out his wounded feelings and weep before him, or to tell him some family secret, without realising that this was an outrageous proceeding.

They threw themselves into each other's arms and wept.

The boy knew that his mother loved him very much, but I doubt whether he cared much for her.

She talked little to him and did not often interfere with him, but he was always morbidly conscious of her intent, searching eyes fixed upon him.

Yet the mother confided his whole instruction and moral education to Stepan Trofimovitch.