I remember that with a hand that trembled I picked up the book that was lying open on the grass and read, without understanding them, the words.

I remember that I said, out aloud: "Something's happened," then turning saw Semyonov's face.
I realised nothing save his face with its pale square beard and red lips, framed there by the shining green and blue.

He stood there, without moving, staring at me, and the memory of his eyes even now as I write of it hurts me physically so that my own eyes close.
That was perhaps the worst moment of my life, that confrontation of Semyonov.

He stood there as though carved in stone (his figure had always the stiff clear outline of stone or wood).

I realised nothing of his body--I simply saw his eyes, that were staring straight in front of him, that were blazing with pain, and yet were blind.