And now I'll sip some tea and perhaps that will do me more good," said Ignat, pouring out tea into the glasses, and Foma noticed that the teapot was trembling in his father's hand.
"Drink." Silently moving up one glass for himself, Foma bent over it, blowing the foam off the surface of the tea, and with pain in his heart, hearing the loud, heavy breathing of his father.

Suddenly something struck against the table with such force that the dishes began to rattle.
Foma shuddered, threw up his head and met the frightened, almost senseless look of his father's eyes.

Ignat stared at his son and whispered hoarsely: "An apple fell down (the devil take it!).

It sounded like the firing of a gun." "Won't you have some cognac in your tea ?" Foma suggested.
"It is good enough without it." They became silent.

A flight of finches winged past over the garden, scattering a provokingly cheerful twittering in the air.