where, instead of a floor, there were three huge steps like the
shelves of a bath-house; and the kitchen was invariably in the
basement with a brick floor and vaulted ceilings. The front of the
house had a harsh, stubborn expression; the lines of it were stiff
and timid; the roof was low-pitched and, as it were, squashed down;
and the fat, well-fed-looking chimneys were invariably crowned by
wire caps with squeaking black cowls. And for some reason all these
houses, built by my father exactly like one another, vaguely reminded
me of his top-hat and the back of his head, stiff and stubborn-looking.
In the course of years they have grown used in the town to the
poverty of my father's imagination. It has taken root and become
our local style.

This same style my father had brought into my sister's life also,
beginning with christening her Kleopatra (just as he had named me
Misail). When she was a little girl he scared her by references to
the stars, to the sages of ancient times, to our ancestors, and
discoursed at length on the nature of life and duty; and now, when
she was twenty-six, he kept up the same habits, allowing her to
walk arm in arm with no one but himself, and imagining for some
reason that sooner or later a suitable young man would be sure to
appear, and to desire to enter into matrimony with her from respect
for his personal qualities. She adored my father, feared him, and
believed in his exceptional intelligence.

It was quite dark, and gradually the street grew empty. The music
had ceased in the house opposite; the gate was thrown wide open,
and a team with three horses trotted frolicking along our street
with a soft tinkle of little bells. That was the engineer going for
a drive with his daughter. It was bedtime.