There was a book which I picked up, attracted by the English lettering on the faded red cover.

It was a "Report on the Condition of New Mexico in 1904"-- a heavy fat volume with the usual photographs of water-falls, cornfields and enormous sheep.

On the walls there was only one picture, a torn supplement from some German magazine showing father returning to his family after a long absence--welcomed, of course, by child (fat and ugly), wife (fatter and uglier), and dog (a mongrel).

There was the usual pile of fiction in Polish, translations I suspect of Conan Doyle and Jerome; there was a desolate palm in a corner and a chipped blue washing stand.

A hideous place: the sun did not penetrate and it should have been cool, but for some reason the air was heavy and hot as though we were enclosed in a biscuit-tin.
I leaned against the table and looked at Marie Ivanovna.
"Isn't it strange ?" I said, "we're only a verst or two from the Austrians and not a sound to be heard.