He thought of Taras Mayakin.
"How severe he is.

He takes after his father.

Only he's not so restless.
He's also a cunning rogue, I think, while Lubka regarded him almost as a saint.

That foolish girl! What a sermon he read to me! A regular judge.
And she--she was kind toward me." But all these thoughts stirred in him no feelings--neither hatred toward Taras nor sympathy for Lubov.
He carried with him something painful and uncomfortable, something incomprehensible to him, that kept growing within his breast, and it seemed to him that his heart was swollen and was gnawing as though from an abscess.

He hearkened to that unceasing and indomitable pain, noticed that it was growing more and more acute from hour to hour, and, not knowing how to allay it, waited for the results.
Then his godfather's trotter passed him.