Short Stories

Stories

Previous Stories (80) | Next Stories (82)

course there is no snow in Paris--and it will soon be Christmas, the
Russian Christmas."

She became silent, folded her hands and laid them against her cheek;
for a moment she had a sorrowful, forlorn expression.

"Continue, Kseniya Ippolytovna", Polunin urged.

"I was driving by our fields and thinking how life here is as simple
and monotonous as the fields themselves, and that it is possible to
live here a serious life without trivialities. You know what it is to
live for trivialities. I am called--and I go. I am loved--and I let


Previous Stories (80) | Next Stories (82)

Stories Index