Ilya Ippolytovich walked through the empty rooms of the dying house. How dusty and mouldy it seemed! The sun came through the window-panes and the of dust looked golden in its radiant light. He entered the room where he had passed his childhood. Dust lay everywhere, on the window-sills, on the floor, and on the furniture. Here and there fresh boot-prints were visible. A thin portmanteau—not belonging to the house and pasted over with many labels—lay on a table. A hard, icy stillness the entire place.  
Ilya Ippolytovich was like his father, but he still walked . His hair was already thinning and growing grey over the temples, but his face was clean-shaven, like a youth's. His lips were wrinkled and he had large, grey, weary eyes.
 
He felt gloomy and unhappy, because his father's days were numbered; and he brooded over the awkwardness of approaching death, wondering how one should behave towards a man who was definitely . To and fro, from corner to corner, he walked, with restless, springy steps.
 
He met his father on the terrace.
 
"Hallo, father!" he said briskly, with an show of carelessness.
 
The old man looked at him blindly, not recognising his son at first. But afterwards he smiled, went up the steps, and gave his cheek to be kissed. It

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