It was morning. Volodya’s mother was alone. Rapt in her confused,
dismal thoughts, she was walking from one room to another. Her shadow
outlined itself vaguely on the white door in the light of the
mist-dimmed sun. She stopped at the door and lifted her arm with a
large, curious movement. The shadow on the door wavered and began to
murmur something familiar and sad. A strange feeling of comfort came
over Eugenia Stepanovna as she stood, a wild smile on her face, before
the door and moved both her hands, watching the trembling shadows.
Then she heard Praskovya coming, and she realized that she was doing an
absurd thing. Once more she felt afraid and sad.
“We ought to make a change,” she thought, “and go elsewhere, somewhere
farther away, to a new atmosphere. We must run away from here, simply
run away!”
And suddenly she remembered Volodya’s words: “There is a wall there
also. The walls are everywhere.”
“There is nowhere to run!”
In her despair she wrung her pale, beautiful hands.