There was something mean and mocking in his voice. It was how certain of their mutual friends spoke to Fyodor when they felt he had done something out of character. When he offered to julienne the vegetables for stews, or when he delicately and with great tenderness lifted their quivering pets into his arms and spoke in soothing, quiet tones into their ears and they stopped shivering, or when his eyes grew teary at the conclusion of movies, as the music became soft and optimistic, like fine rain or mist on hopeful faces. In these moments he often saw himself through their eyes, and understood
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