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Sorrow
by
“Your honor, where are my legs, where are my arms!”
“Say good-by to your arms and legs. . . . They’ve been frozen off. Come, come! . . . What are you crying for ? You’ve lived your life, and thank God for it! I suppose you have had sixty years of it — that’s enough for you! . . .”
“I am grieving. . . . Graciously forgive me! If I could have another five or six years! . . .”
“What for?”
“The horse isn’t mine, I must give it back. . . . I must bury my old woman. . . . How quickly it is all ended in this world! Your honor, Pavel Ivanitch! A cigarette-case of birchwood of the best! I’ll turn you croquet balls. . . .”
The doctor went out of the ward with a wave of his hand. It was all over with the turner.