His face looked condescendingly contented, and all his figure somewhat aristocratic and haughty.

He seemed to be amused by the old man's joy.
And Yakov Tarasovich tapped Foma on the chest with his finger and said: "I do not know him, my own son.

He has not opened his soul to me.

It may be that such a difference had grown up between us that not only an eagle, but the devil himself cannot cross it.

Perhaps his blood has overboiled; that there is not even the scent of the father's blood in it.