A thin hand, covered with reddish hairs, hung down from the stove; it was cold and pale.

“I’ll go and tell the overseer. He’s dead, seemingly,” said the driver.

Fyodor had no relations⁠—he had come from distant parts. The next day he was buried in the new graveyard beyond the copse, and for several days after Nastasya told every one of the dream she had had, and how she had been the first to discover that Uncle Fyodor was dead.