Foma was dressing himself, and his father, with lowered head, spoke slowly: "I am afraid to breathe.

Something tells me that if I should now heave a deep sigh, my heart would burst.

Today is Sunday! After the morning mass is over, send for the priest." "What are you talking about, papa ?" Foma smiled.
"Nothing.

Wash yourself and go into the garden.

I ordered the samovar to be brought there.