I'd like to go to them and say: 'Brethren, help me! Teach me! I know not how to live!.

And if I am guilty--forgive me!' But looking about, I see there's no one to speak to.

No one wants it--they are all rascals! And it seems they are even worse than I am.

For I am, at least, ashamed of living as I am, while they are not! They go on." Foma uttered some violent, unbecoming invectives and became silent.
Sasha broke off her song and moved still farther away from him.

The wind was raging outside the window, hurling dust against the window-panes.
Cockroaches were rustling on the oven as they crawled over a bunch of pine wood splinters.