Sparrows were busying themselves in the straw beside the entrance to the cow-shed. Zhenya had once said that sparrows were her favourite bird . . . And now he was on fire – just like a house. The beams had given way. The ceiling was falling in. Cups and plates were crashing to the floor. Cupboards were toppling over. Books and pillows were tumbling about, flying through the smoke and the sparks like birds . . . ‘I shall be grateful all my life for everything pure and noble that you have given me. But what can I do? The past is stronger than I am. I can’t kill it, I can’t forget it . . . Don’t
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