The lanes and sea of his remembered vision were not far from that dirty, disordered town in Galicia--and for both of them he was rendering his service.
At any rate there we sat, huddled together, reflected in the countless looking-glasses as a helpless miserable "lot," falling into long silences, hoping for the coming of Molozov with later news, listening to the confusion in the street below.

Marie Ivanovna with her hands behind her back and her head up walked, nervously, up and down the long room.

Her eyes stared beyond us and the place, striving perhaps to find some reason why life should so continually insist on being a different thing from her imaginings of it.
Lighted by the hot sun, blown upon by the dust, her figure, tall, thin, swaying a little in its many reflections, had the determined valour of some Joan of Arc.

But Joan of Arc, I thought to myself, had at least some one definite against whom to wave her white banner; we were fighting dust and the sun.
Trenchard and Nikitin had left us to go into the town to search for news.

We were silent.