There were certain unexpected, daring thoughts and words, which suddenly flashed like sparks, as though an impression produced them from Foma's brains.

And he noticed more than once that whatever he had carefully thought out beforehand was expressed by him not quite so well, and more obscure, than that which suddenly flashed up in his heart.
Foma lived as though walking in a swamp, in danger of sinking at each step in the mire and slime, while his godfather, like a river loach, wriggled himself on a dry, firm little spot, vigilantly watching the life of his godson from afar.
After his quarrel with Foma, Yakov Tarasovich returned home, gloomy and pensive.

His eyes flashed drily, and he straightened himself like a tightly-stretched string.

His wrinkles shrank painfully, his face seemed to have become smaller and darker, and when Lubov saw him in this state it appeared to her that he was seriously ill, but that he was forcing and restraining himself.

Mutely and nervously the old man flung himself about the room, casting in reply to his daughter's questions, dry curt words, and finally shouted to her: "Leave me alone! You see it has nothing to do with you." She felt sorry for him when she noticed the gloomy and melancholy expression of his keen, green eyes; she made it her duty to question him as to what had happened to him, and when he seated himself at the dinner-table she suddenly approached him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and looking down into his face, asked him tenderly and anxiously: "Papa, are you ill?
tell me!" Her caresses were extremely rare; they always softened the lonely old man, and though he did not respond to them for some reason or other he nevertheless could not help appreciating them.