His dishevelled hair fell on his forehead and temples; the torn and crumpled bosom of his shirt protruding from under his vest, and the collar covered his lips.

He turned his head to push the collar down under his chin, and was unable to do it.

Then the gray-headed little old man walked up to him, adjusted what was necessary, looked into his eyes with a smile and said: "You must endure it." Now, in Mayakin's presence, those who had mocked Foma were silent, looking at the old man questioningly, with curiosity and expectancy.
He was calm but his eyes gleamed in a way not at all becoming to the occasion, contentedly and brightly.
"Give me some vodka," begged Foma, seating himself at the table, and leaning his chest against its edge.

His bent figure look piteous and helpless.

Around they were talking in whispers, passing this way and that cautiously.