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Chapter 3

           Yourhousehastheaspectofyourselfandallyourfamily;itbearsthestampoftheRogojinlife;butaskmewhyIthinkso,andIcantellyounothing.Itisnonsense,ofcourse.Iamnervousaboutthiskindofthingtroublingmesomuch.Ihadneverbeforeimaginedwhatsortofahouseyouwouldlivein,andyetnosoonerdidIseteyesonthisonethanIsaidtomyselfthatitmustbeyours.”

           “Really!”saidRogojinvaguely,nottakinginwhattheprincemeantbyhisratherobscureremarks.

           Theroomtheywerenowsittinginwasalargeone,loftybutdark,wellfurnished,principallywithwriting-tablesanddeskscoveredwithpapersandbooks.AwidesofacoveredwithredmoroccoevidentlyservedRogojinforabed.Onthetablebesidewhichtheprincehadbeeninvitedtoseathimselflaysomebooks;onecontainingamarkerwherethereaderhadleftoff,wasavolumeofSolovieff’sHistory.Someoil-paintingsinworngildedframeshungonthewalls,butitwasimpossibletomakeoutwhatsubjectstheyrepresented,soblackenedweretheybysmokeandage.One,alife-sizedportrait,attractedtheprince’sattention.Itshowedamanofaboutfifty,wearingalongriding-coatofGermancut.Hehadtwomedalsonhisbreast;hisbeardwaswhite,shortandthin;hisfaceyellowandwrinkled,withasly,suspiciousexpressionintheeyes.

           “Thatisyourfather,isitnot?”askedtheprince.

           “Yes,itis,”repliedRogojinwithanunpleasantsmile,asifhehadexpectedhisguesttoaskthequestion,andthentomakesomedisagreeableremark.

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