Vasilisa Vasena came every morning at seven o'clock; she was a country-woman of about thirty seven, strong, healthy, red-faced, reminiscent of a July day in her floridness and vigorous health.  
She used to say quietly: "Good morning to you, Ippolyte
Ippolytovich."
And he would give a base "Eh?" in a voice like a worn-out gramophone record.
 
Vasena began washing him with a sponge, then fed him with manna-gruel. The old man sat up on the sofa, his hands resting on his knees. He ate slowly from a spoon. They were silent, his eyes gazing inwardly, seeing nothing. Sunbeams stole in through the window and on his yellowish hair.
 
"Your good son, Ilya Ippolytovich, has come," Vasena said.
 
"Eh?"
 
Ippolyte Ippolytovich had married at about the age of forty; of his three sons only Ilya was living. The old man called his son to memory, pictured him in his mind, but felt neither joy nor interest— felt nothing!
 
Dimly, somewhere far away in the dark of his memory, a , wavering image of his son; at first h............