He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt to make his breathing easier, rested his elbows on the table, and with his head tightly pressed between his hands, he sat motionless.

It was drizzling and the leaves of the apple-tree were rustling mournfully under the drops of the rain.

He sat there for a long time alone, motionless, watching how the small drops were falling from the apple-tree.

His head was heavy from the vodka, and in his heart there was a growing grudge against men.
Some indefinite, impersonal feelings and thoughts were springing up and vanishing within him; before him flashed the bald skull of his godfather with a little crown of silver hair and with a dark face, which resembled the faces of the ancient ikons.

This face with the toothless mouth and the malicious smile, rousing in Foma hatred and fear, augmented in him the consciousness of solitude.