nothing good.

"Your life is ruined," she would say, mournfully shaking her head,
"ruined."

Her adopted son Prokofy, a huge, uncouth, red-headed fellow of
thirty, with bristling moustaches, a butcher by trade, lived in the
little house with her. When he met me in the passage he would make
way for me in respectful silence, and if he was drunk he would
salute me with all five fingers at once. He used to have supper in
the evening, and through the partition wall of boards I could hear
him clear his throat and sigh as he drank off glass after glass.

"Mamma," he would call in an undertone.

"Well," Karpovna, who was passionately devoted to her adopted son,
would respond: "What is it, sonny?"

"I can show you a testimony of my affection, mamma. All this earthly
life I will cherish you in your declining years in this vale of
tears, and when you die I will bury you at my expense; I have said
it, and you can believe it."

I got up every morning before sunrise, and went to bed early. We
house painters ate a great deal and slept soundly; the only thing
amiss was that my heart used to beat violently at night. I did not
quarrel with my mates. Violent abuse, desperate oaths, and wishes
such as, "Blast your eyes," or "Cholera take you," never ceased all
day, but, nevertheless, we lived on very friendly terms. The other
fellows suspected me of being some sort of religious sectary, and